By Starlight
by Wheel of Fish
Summary: It's her first masked ball at the Opera, and it may very well be her last when she accidentally acquires one of the Opera Ghost's personal effects. Leroux-ish, post-canon, E/OC. COMPLETE.
1. The Masked Ball

A/N: This story assumes all of the facts laid out in Leroux's novel, stopping short of Erik's death. Thanks to EspoirDio for the masked ball prompt!

* * *

It was Mardi Gras, and it took Clara all of ten seconds inside the Paris opera house to understand why she had long been forbidden to attend its masked balls.

This one had started at midnight. She had arrived at only half past, yet gone was the sense of decorum that she expected of social functions; in its place was merry chaos. Alcohol flowed freely. Patrons were raucous and bawdy, doling out catcalls and playful insults. Costume dresses were snug and low-cut. Thousands of people were packed into the building like well-dressed cattle, and one could barely walk three paces without being jostled. All of this, and she had yet to set foot beyond the grand vestibule at the front of the building.

Beside her stood her sister, Margot, and their aunt. Aunt Céleste surveyed the scene with measured calm, perhaps for the benefit of her uncertain nieces. A masquerade novice herself despite her years, she was attired in a Renaissance-style gown of emerald velvet and puffed gold satin, with a coordinating gold mask. "Come, girls, let us go to the loge," she said.

The three women pressed through the crowd to reach second-tier box nineteen, which they shared with their cousins the Beaumonts. Even the corridor outside of it swarmed thickly with guests. Following closely behind her aunt, Clara pushed past the mahogany door of box nineteen and into the sanctuary of its little carpeted salon, hung with red damask silk.

She had not yet recovered from sensory overload before her sister impatiently parted the curtains that separated the salon from the box seats overlooking the auditorium. "Oh, do come look!" Margot cried.

With some hesitation, Clara and her aunt peered over the loge balcony to observe the crush of dancers and revelers in the rich gold-and-crimson auditorium below. Every last seat had been removed from the floor for the occasion. The orchestra played a lively quadrille from the pit, but the crowd was packed too tightly to allow space for the dance—though that did not stop several inebriated couples from trying. Guests were costumed as harlequins, dominoes, historical figures, shepherds and shepherdesses, various flora and fauna. There were even men dressed as women and women dressed as men. Clara had to admit that it _was_ quite the spectacle, if one could overlook the undercurrent of debauchery.

Months before, when her father had announced to the family his intention to be away on business during Mardi Gras, Margot had been so cunning and subtle in planting and nursing the idea of the ball in her aunt's mind that Céleste may very well have believed she'd thought of it herself.

It had been five years since Aunt Céleste had seen both her elder son and her daughter married off, and ten since her husband and younger son had "gone to join the Lord in heaven," as she liked to say. Now she spent her days languishing in her brother's household, coming to terms with the fact that her nieces—whose upbringing she'd overseen since their mother died in childbirth—would soon marry and leave her without purpose.

"I am old," she had decreed one evening. Since the conclusion of supper she'd moved from wine to apple brandy, growing more candid with every sip. "I should like to see a bit more of this world before I leave it." She had then proposed that she escort Margot and Clara to the masked ball under the condition that "we never speak of this to your father."

It took much longer for Margot to persuade her sister to attend—months, in fact. The masked balls were not necessarily off limits to society women, especially with the option of disguise, but to attend an event known to cater to hedonism was to risk tarnishing the purity and reputation of one's family name.

Clara did not like risk. Risk was dangerous and unpredictable—a step off a ledge with no certainty of what lay below—and she had already led quite a comfortable existence without it, thank you very much. She had maintained her intention to stay home from the ball up until one week prior, when she was presented with the costume that Margot had commissioned for her.

The gown was black velvet swathed in gauzy midnight-blue tulle, which was covered with small stars of silver tinsel. For her waist, there was a silver belt of stars and a crescent moon in the center, just below her navel. The coordinating mask was dark blue velvet with cutouts shaped like cat-eyes; it was dotted asymmetrically with tiny silver stars, many of them clustered dramatically around the corners of the eye holes.

The ensemble had been too beautiful—too _her_ —not to try it on.

As she'd stood before the mirror, admiring the contrast of caramel hair against inky velvet, her sister had said, "Well, that's settled. You must wear your hair down."

"I cannot," Clara had said, trying not to look wistful as she twisted her hips to make the stars swirl around her.

"Think of it as our last great sisterly adventure," Margot had replied. "Do it for me, at least."

The thought had been sobering. They were nearing their twenty-fourth birthday, and their father had decreed early in the year that he intended to see them married by Christmas. They had worn his patience thin, he'd said. Clara had already turned down a suitor because she did not care for him; Margot had rejected three because she cared for _all_ of them—and more—and loathed the idea of chaining herself to one man forever.

"Fine," Clara had said, releasing an exaggerated sigh. "At least if I am somehow dishonored or murdered, I will not have to worry about finding a husband this year."

Margot had squealed and pulled her into a suffocating hug. "Do not forget what I said about your hair."

Clara was, in fact, wearing her hair down. It had taken a combination of sleeping in rags plus hours of fierce determination by her lady's maid, Juliette, in order to tease her stick-straight locks into thick ringlets that would hold for the night.

Margot's costume was another play on the sky, her skirt a light blue crinoline beneath sheer tulle that had been dyed to look like an arcing rainbow, with beading on the lower half to look like raindrops. There was a gold sunburst bodice and a matching headpiece for her honeyed brown updo. She studied the scene in the auditorium with an eagerness both characteristic of her and yet unmatched by any of her previous enthusiasm.

They were brought trays of champagne and oysters and petits-fours. Aunt Céleste, giving in too eagerly to the evening's libations, chattered at length. At one point, a masked man who quite resembled Monsieur Beaumont in physique and voice burst in with a supple gypsy girl on his arm, noted the box's occupants, and muttered an embarrassed apology before beating a hasty retreat.

An hour into their stay, Clara—still nursing her first glass of champagne—surveyed the boxes circling the auditorium and remarked, "How surprising that so many of the loges should be empty tonight."

"Only the box seats," said Margot. "You can see under the curtains that many of the salons are lit."

"Why stay in the salon and miss the ball?" Clara asked, pretending that she had not been tempted to do the very same thing.

Her sister smirked. "Have you no imagination, sissy? Think: if you were one of the many disguised, intoxicated guests throwing caution to the wind tonight, what might you want privacy for?"

Clara's eyes widened. "How vulgar!" she cried. "Where did you even hear such a thing?"

"Carole-Anne Yount. And _she_ heard it from her brother, the crude one. It takes only a few sips of wine to loosen her tongue, you know, little bird that she is." Margot drained her second glass. "Also, I saw a half-dressed couple on the ground tier close their loge curtains. It's all very enlightening, wouldn't you say?"

Clara shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder whether you and I truly shared a womb."

"Funny, you never seem to doubt it when you remind me that you are the eldest by twelve minutes." Margot flashed her a teasing smile and stood, pulling Clara up from her chair. "Follow me. I am so _bored_ in here." She led her sister by the hand into the salon, where their aunt sat flushed from alcohol, a half-eaten canapé pinched between her fingers. "Aunt Céleste, we are going exploring," she announced.

The elder woman nodded agreeably and waved them along. "Enjoy yourselves, dears," she said. "Make good decisions, and all that." She let out a small giggle and bit into the remainder of the hors d'oeuvre.

"That was easier than I expected," Margot chirped at the door.

"We cannot be seen without an escort!" Clara protested. "People will think us... _kept_ women."

"Nonsense. No one knows or cares who we are at this point. You can be _anyone_ you want to be tonight, sissy! Let's go and see what's happening in the grand foyer." With that, Margot pushed open the door, and they were swept into the crowd.

They were separated before they made it past the grand staircase, Clara losing sight of her sister among a sea of men in black top hats who flirted more ostentatiously with women than she had ever seen in her life. The building started to spin around her, and she gripped a balustrade in order to rein in her panic. She would continue to the foyer, she decided, believing Margot likely to do the same.

Music and voices melded into a steady thrum as she inched through the mob. She began to catch glimpses of things that she wished she hadn't seen: bodies pressed together, hands disappearing up skirts, flesh exposed and groped. The air was thick with the smell of cigars and sweat and alcohol and vomit, and as she pushed her way through the crowd, more than one hand palmed the curves of her body and she thought she might be sick. Her cheeks burned with mortification.

She was fighting back tears by the time she found the grand foyer, which was no less crowded. She knew that the doors along one side opened out to the loggia, a massive elevated terrace stretching the full length of the foyer, and she prayed that the crowd would be sparse enough outside to allow her fresh air and relative quiet.

But the windowed doors would not even open. She could see that the terrace was dark and empty, no doubt cordoned off to prevent drunken revelers from tumbling over the balcony, but still she rattled the handles, a panicked sob bubbling in her throat.

In a moment of weakness, she abandoned decorum and leaned resignedly against one of the hall's many gilted marble columns, gazing out at the throng of people. It was then that she saw what made her blood freeze.

It was a man—at least, he gave the outward appearance of being one. He was somewhat tall, quite thin, and dressed as a Spanish bullfighter. With his combination of cropped silk jacket and snug, tapered trousers—both a sultry garnet red, with thickly ornate gold embroidery—he was practically all legs: spindly, but striking. His accessories were black as night: the bulbous fur hat typical of matadors, a pair of slippers, a cloth mask that extended from forehead to lips. He wore no gloves, and his long fingers were almost skeletal in their thinness.

She could not articulate why, but there was something entirely _otherworldly_ about him. Even as he stood still, his posture suggested something skulking and sinister. He seemed to exist on a plane apart from everyone else: a bad omen, personified. Clara's heart beat erratically; her skin prickled and turned to gooseflesh.

His eyes suddenly fixed on hers, and she could have sworn that they almost glowed rich amber in the shadow between the overhead chandeliers. She nearly stopped breathing entirely. And yet, despite her discomfort, she did not divert her gaze. Could not. She felt inexplicably drawn to him.

They continued to stare at each other. His expression remained almost impassive, if not mildly annoyed. And then, so slightly that she almost missed it, he cocked his head a few degrees to the left.

She shuddered, and then she must have blinked—for in the split second that followed, he had vanished. She scoured the foyer, but there was no sign of the ghostly matador.

A waiter bearing champagne walked past her, and she plucked a glass from his silver tray. Next to her was a small table of standing height, littered with empty glasses and hors d'oeuvres plates, and she set her gloves on it in order to partake of the alcohol. She drank too much, too fast, in a rush to soothe her nerves; the bubbly liquid was halfway gone before she came to her senses and switched to measured sips. She supposed that if she could not escape, she would at least rely on the alcohol to buoy her to that conversational sweet spot between sober and uninhibited. Her muscles released a bit of their tightness.

"Are you not enjoying yourself, mademoiselle?"

The words were quiet and clear despite the volume of the crowd, as though delivered a breath's length from her ear. She started, nearly spilling the remaining champagne down her dress.

It was a man's voice, soft and deep and resonant. Hypnotic. Somehow, even without visual confirmation, she knew whose it was. And despite the terror that seized her, she had the sense that she would have done anything the voice asked of her.

* * *

 _A/N: I can't take full credit for Clara's and Margot's costumes; they are based on ones that I have seen in pictures or drawings, Margot's in particular. Clara's is a blend of ideas._


	2. The Phantom and the Fawn

A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews. They keep me going. :)

* * *

"Are you not enjoying yourself, mademoiselle?"

Clara made herself turn to face him. He stood stick-straight and unmoving, as though bolted into the floor. His hands were clasped behind his back expectantly. She briefly forgot how to speak until he cleared his throat, and she placed her champagne glass on the table next to her for fear that it might shatter in her grip.

"I'm afraid that I'm not well suited to this sort of crowd," she said. "I had hoped to get some fresh air, but the doors are locked."

"Allow me." With a flick of his wrist, the masked matador had cracked open one of the doors that she'd found locked only moments before. He gestured to the exit with an upturned palm, the bones of his wrist jutting out sharply. "After you."

The crisp night air that swept in through the gap was alluring, as was the promise of quiet and starlight. _But if you go out there_ , she told herself, _that is likely where they will find your body come morning._ "Thank you, monsieur, but it would hardly be appropriate. We have not even been introduced."

Even his low chuckle sounded ominous. "No need for introductions among the nameless and faceless, my dear girl," he said. "That is the appeal of the masquerade." He inched closer, peering down at her face with apparent curiosity. "But I think it is not the accusation of impropriety that you fear so much as it is me."

"And if that were true...would I be mistaken?"

"No," he said quietly.

She glanced sidelong at the open door. It would be so easy for him to pull her out into the darkness, her cries lost among the clamor of drunken revelry. Her eyes, now seeking some sort of exit or distraction, came to rest on the table at her side, where a used dinner knife lay on an empty plate. Did she even dare?

The matador followed her gaze and put up a hand as though to stop her thoughts. "Not necessary," he said dismissively. "I hardly consider you a threat."

"Then please, monsieur, what is it that you want from me?"

"You were staring at me. Afraid. Why?"

"Just...a feeling." He stared, as though waiting for her to elaborate, but she did not know how else to describe it. "I saw you, and I sensed danger," she said conclusively. "I know I ought to apologize for rushing to judgment, but it seems that my instincts were correct."

To her great surprise, he began to laugh. There was something sad in his laughter, and also something...unhinged. "It cannot be done!" he declared. "By your own admission, even the most genius disguise known to man would never permit me to live in the light among men, for even my body—my very _existence_ —is possessed."

She could not make sense of his words. "Monsieur?"

He sighed and brought his fingertips to his temple, as though nursing a headache; his eyelids briefly flickered shut. "The point is, mademoiselle—what did you say your name was?"

"Clara," she replied reflexively, and then she silently cursed herself for her blunder.

"The point is, Clara, that when one wants to die, one should not allow an insufferable Persian to convince him otherwise."

Now she was certain that he must be quite mad. And yet, his words seemed distinctly lucid and deliberate. She grasped for a response, a way to inject some calm into their interaction. "If it's any consolation," she remarked, "no one else seems to have noticed your presence."

He tilted his head to look at her as though suddenly remembering she was there. "Clara," he said, turning the word over on his tongue. "No doubt from the Latin _clarus,_ meaning bright or clear. Perhaps you ought to be costumed as the sun?"

She forced a nervous half-smile, uncertain of whether he spoke in jest. She suddenly recalled the words that her sister had spoken minutes before: _You can be anyone you want to be tonight_. The thought of saying whatever she wanted, without consequence, both thrilled and terrified her. What would Margot say in this situation? Something witty and coquettish, certainly.

No. She couldn't do it, even under the cover of her mask.

Her reply was once again timid. "I beg your pardon, monsieur, but if you were to look outside at this moment, you would find the moon and stars bright and the night sky clear."

"Is that so?" He appeared mildly amused. "I am afraid that I have not been outside in...some time."

She regarded him curiously. Surely he had passed through the open air to enter this very building?

"Are you at all familiar with Egyptian mythology, Clara?"

She found herself wishing that she could tell him yes, though the thought of having been permitted to study foreign gods alongside Catholicism was laughable. "No, monsieur."

"The ancient Egyptians," he said, "worshipped a sky-goddess, Nut, whose body was blue and covered with stars. I thought that perhaps you might be costumed as she."

Unsure how to respond, she gave a meek shake of her head. She realized that it was no longer fear she felt toward the masked stranger, but rather some sort of awe. She longed to _impress_ him! If only she did not lack the knowledge and confidence to do so. She was not even sure why he was still talking to her, having completed his investigation.

He was watching her appraisingly now. "No," he said slowly, "not a goddess. You are more earthly than your costume implies. A fawn, perhaps: skittish and dewy-eyed, with all the naïveté of a child who has yet to experience how cruel this world can be. Your hair is certainly the right color for it."

Perhaps he had not intended to insult her, but his condescension filled her with shame. Her eyes began to sting and she willed away the tears, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. "I am not a child," she said, almost as a whisper, "and you ought not to make assumptions about people you've only just met. I do not even know your name."

"Nor will you ever."

She bit her lip. "You are quite rude, monsieur."

"Perhaps," he conceded, "but am I wrong? Tell me, Clara, what are your dreams and aspirations?"

No one had ever asked her that before. _She_ had never asked herself that before. How was one expected to respond to such a question?

"Well, I...I suppose I aspire to be a dutiful wife and mother someday."

He smiled grimly, as though her response pained him. "As I suspected. How positively mundane."

It was like a slap in the face. She knew that she had given a stock answer, but was it not something to be respected? And yet here was a man who made her feel as though she was already a failure at life. Something ugly brewed in the pit of her stomach: the need to lash out, to retaliate, as a means of distracting her from her innermost thoughts and fears. It was self-preservation, her mind reasoned. But what weakness did this peculiar man have?

And then she saw them: a band of raucous young men moving through the crowd, plucking masks off of unsuspecting guests and laughing madly at their horrified expressions. Though their antics would have frightened and infuriated her at any other time, they now emboldened her. "It seems as though we are at risk of being revealed to the crowd, monsieur matador," she said, nodding her head in their direction. "I am eager to see the face of the man who seems to know everything."

He scowled, but his eyes darted nervously around the foyer and she knew that she'd guessed correctly. For whatever reason, he was quite against revealing his identity. A wanted criminal, perhaps?

"I have wasted enough of my time speaking with you," he said gruffly, "and now I take my leave. Do not speak of me to anyone, mademoiselle, or you will come to regret it."

He stalked off in the direction of the grand staircase, and as he moved, something small and glinting fell from his left hand to the floor. It rolled in her direction and teetered to a stop a few paces away. She bent to pick it up.

It was a ring. When she straightened and held it up to the light, she could see that it was a gold band, small and plain.

Just beyond it she saw the matador halt, flexing the fingers of his left hand, and he pivoted on his heels to scan the parquet floor between them. His eyes traveled upward to rest on her fingers, still pinching the object in question. At that precise moment, her disguise was unceremoniously snatched away as one of the agitators shouted, "Off with her mask!"

The matador's gaze flicked up to her face; his amber eyes burned with such ferocity that she was almost certain he wanted to kill her. And now he had her identity.

The gaggle of offending guests ambled in his direction. And then, just as abruptly as before, he was gone.

* * *

She took the ring home with her, in the end. What else could she have done? To leave it was akin to handing it to a stranger. Under normal circumstances she might have turned it in to the Opera staff, but she somehow sensed that he would not want that.

It was nearly four in the morning when she and her companions arrived home, the revelry having been still under way when they left the Opera. They indulged in a late supper, selecting from leftovers of the previous night's dinner: veal bouillon, chateaubriand steak, fried potatoes, mushrooms on toast, roast chicken. They sipped at cold black coffee mixed with seltzer water to ease the effects of their drinking.

Clara stashed the ring in her jewelry box as soon as she was able. The lady's maid helped her to disrobe and slip into a lacy cotton nightgown the color of new cream. Afterward, she withdrew the ring from its hiding place and turned it over in her fingers. She might have thought it the matador's wedding ring had it not been so small, as though meant for a woman. She slid it on to confirm, and it barely fit her ring finger. How had he worn it? His hands had been bony, yes, but they were also fairly large on account of his height. Perhaps he kept the ring on his littlest finger? But why?

There was a quick rap at her door, and Clara hastily shoved the ring back into her jewelry box. "I'm coming in," Margot announced. She was also dressed for sleep and clambered directly into Clara's bed—something she had done often in their youth when there were excitements to be awaited or discussed. Clara could not recall the last time it had happened, and she felt a passing wisp of longing for her childhood.

She climbed in next to her sister, who now lay propped up on one elbow, smiling a dreamy, almost conspiratorial smile. "Why do I fear that you are going to tell me something scandalous?" she asked.

Margot's smiled widened. "Turn over and I'll braid your hair while we talk, like old times."

Clara obeyed without protest, closing her eyes as the gentle tug of her sister's fingers lured her into complacency. She felt fortunate that her twin was so physically affectionate; every touch imparted a sense of security, of belonging. She wondered whether she could expect such gestures from her future husband: a reassuring squeeze of the hand, fingertips swept across her brow, a stolen kiss. If she was honest with herself, it was the one aspect of marriage that she anticipated most.

"I kissed a man tonight," Margot said, as though peering in on Clara's thoughts.

She was almost too stunned to reply. "Who?"

"Well, I wouldn't know, would I? That's the whole point! Masked balls are _meant_ to be for romantic liaisons."

Clara recalled the "liaisons" that she had witnessed hours earlier; those had been decidedly unromantic. Yet, she could not stop the despondent jealousy that overtook her.

Her sister interpreted her silence differently. "Don't you dare judge me, Clara!" she said. "I only did what was expected of such an event. And oh, it was wonderful. I can only hope that every man kisses as well as that matador did."

Clara tensed and rolled over to face her. "Matador?"

Margot nodded. "Well, I think that's what he was. It was a rather cheap costume, and the most dreadful shade of green. He likely was not the cream of the crop. They let in anyone who can pay the ten-franc admission, you know. Possibly he was a doctor or— _eugh_ —a journalist."

Clara released the breath she had not realized she'd been holding and settled back into the mattress, confident that it was not her matador whom her twin had kissed. And that thought gave her pause; when had he become _her_ matador?

"Now tell me, sissy, was there anyone who caught your eye this evening?"

She averted Margot's gaze, focusing instead on the ceiling. "Yes...I daresay there was."

"Are you not going to tell me about him?"

"I would rather forget." Clara saw her sister's inquisitive look out of the corner of her eye, but she pretended otherwise. "I am woefully tired," she said. "Let's talk more later."

"Fine." Margot sighed and turned to her other side to face away from her sister, wrapping the bedclothes tightly around her shoulders. "Do you think that we shall ever see our masked men again?" she asked, her voice soft and drowsy. "That we might perhaps run into them in the Bois or the Opera and not even know it's them?"

"I should certainly hope not." Clara extinguished the bedside lamp and pulled the covers up to her ears.

The matador's words taunted her despite her exhaustion. She endured the painful memory for five minutes before mustering the courage to ask, "Margot, am I mundane?" But the only response was the sound of her twin's deep and even breathing.

As Clara began to drift into sleep herself, she could not help but watch for a pair of glowing amber eyes at the window.

* * *

A/N: Nut is pronounced with a long u, like "noot."


	3. Box Five

When Clara woke from her post-masquerade slumber, the city had fallen under an endless stretch of cloud, thick and gray as putty, that took up residence for most of the following week. Every day brought random smatterings of rain or drizzle. Each morning, she would peer out at the dreariness through her large second-story window, which opened onto a tiny balcony overlooking her street in Le Marais, and without even unlatching it she could feel the damp chill that had likely caused the cold that her sister now suffered from.

She could not forget her encounter with the strange matador, but she had talked herself out of her fear of retribution. Had he truly wanted his ring back, she decided, he could have asked her for it. Instead, he had left before she'd even had time to react. Besides, he had seen her face for all of two seconds, and he knew nothing of her family or her whereabouts. She had gone on several outings in the week following the ball, and there were no ominous men or incidents to speak of—which was why, when her aunt reminded her at breakfast of their usual Wednesday appearance at the opera house that night, she thought nothing of it.

"Of course, you will have to stay home again," Aunt Céleste said to Margot, who was irritably slathering a thick layer of strawberry preserves onto her bread. "We shall miss your company tremendously. Goodness, Margot, surely that's enough jam?"

"I miss butter," Margot grumbled. "I do not understand how our avoiding it for forty days would be of any interest to God."

Clara rolled her eyes. "You _know_ that it is not about butter specifically."

"When we forego meat and dairy during Lent," said Aunt Céleste, "we are honoring when Christ fasted in the desert. It is spiritual discipline."

"Surely the litany of year-round restrictions is discipline enough," Margot muttered.

"I will not tolerate your cheek on this matter, young lady."

Margot set down her knife and bread and stared sheepishly at her plate. Her lips were dry and cracked, her nose pink. "I apologize, auntie," she said softly. "I'm afraid I still don't feel well."

Céleste reached across the dining table to pat her niece's hand. "Why don't you go up to bed? We can have your breakfast sent up to you, with some hot tea."

It was with some reluctance that Margot agreed. Clara watched her leave the room, puzzled by the childish outburst.

"What was all that about?" she asked on a detour to Margot's room after breakfast.

Her twin, currently sitting up in bed, set down her book and sighed. "If you must know, I am terribly cross about missing the opera."

"You have seen _La Favorite_ half a dozen times!" Clara realized her error as soon as the words left her mouth, and her sister's feigned disappointment in her confirmed it. Her lips twisted into a small smile. "But you hoped to see your matador again."

"Him or any other dashing young man who will have me." Margot's face may have been etched with illness, but her brown eyes were sharp and serious. "Honestly, sissy, that ball...it changed things. I realized what I have been missing without a husband. That physicality, that— _security_...I've never felt anything like it."

Clara could almost feel the distance widening between them as her sister announced, "I think I'm finally ready. For marriage." She felt herself smiling and nodding, heard herself murmuring some words of affirmation, but her conviction was lacking. She had no idea how to function, she realized, without her twin.

* * *

After dinner that night, Clara changed into an evening dress of plum-colored silk. She slipped on a matching brocade mantle just before she stepped out to the carriage that would take her and her aunt to the Palais Garnier. There was still a chill in the air, but she was pleased to find the clouds finally dissipating and revealing the night sky.

They arrived at second-tier box nineteen to find their box-keeper, a beanpole of a man with greasy black hair, anxiously wringing his hands outside the door. "Ah, Mme. Reynaud! Mlle. Toussaint!" His greeting was urgent and halfhearted. "It is with the utmost regret that I must inform you we are experiencing mechanical difficulties with your loge door at present. Specifically, the, ah, well, the lock appears to—to be stuck."

Aunt Céleste eyed him dubiously. "Stuck, you say?"

He swallowed and nodded. "A locksmith has been summoned, and you will, of course, be refunded for the evening. In the meantime, I have been informed that the subscriber of first-tier box five has learned of the situation and offered the loge for your temporary use."

"Why, that is awfully kind," Céleste said, "but I thought that box had long been out of commission."

"I was under the same impression, madame, but its box-keeper informs me otherwise."

"Indeed? And who is this mysterious subscriber?"

"I'm afraid I do not know, madame. But I would note that your companions, the Beaumonts, have already accepted the invitation and are currently seated in the box."

Céleste sighed. "Very well, then. Lead the way."

They were welcomed into box five by a small but robust woman in faded black taffeta. She introduced herself as Madame Giry, the box-keeper.

The Beaumonts were entertaining friends for the evening and occupied the first row of seats overlooking the auditorium. Clara sat behind them with her aunt, who remarked, "This is not a particularly good view of the stage, is it?"

Clara was too distracted to respond. All around the loge tiers, wealthy spectators strained forward with their opera glasses to observe the new tenants of box five. She shrunk back in her seat. For a group of people so obsessed with decorum, they could be awfully gauche. Part of her hoped that her future husband would hate the opera.

She snapped out of her reverie just in time to hear her aunt exclaim to the newcomers in front of her, "They very nearly died alongside their poor mother, God rest her soul!"

Had Margot been there, the two of them would have rolled their eyes in tandem. People in general were utterly fascinated by twins, it turned out, and only slightly less so when they discovered that Clara and Margot were not identical. Aunt Céleste was only too happy to indulge such curiosity on behalf of her nieces. She regularly shared the tale of their birth: their five-week prematurity, the need to find two wet nurses, and Clara's harrowing near-death experience as contrasted with Margot's tenacious fight to live.

Said twins could recite Céleste's version of the story by heart. Though Clara suspected that Margot secretly liked to hear her resilience being lauded again and again, they often cracked jokes at their aunt's expense, making flippant references to "our poor mother, God rest her soul."

They had no choice but to find humor in the situation. The alternative was to focus on the reality of it: that they were, in essence, responsible for their mother's death. Or that their aunt had co-opted someone else's history because she could not bear to recall her own: a husband and an eight-year-old son lost to artillery fire and diphtheria, respectively, during the Siege of Paris more than a decade prior, when Prussian troops had effectively barricaded the city for four months. With the exception of one vague allusion to eating horse meat, Aunt Céleste never spoke of that time.

Clara usually looked forward to _La Favorite_ based on the same nostalgic repetition that led her to enjoy other annual traditions, such as setting out the nativity scene at Christmastime. Today, however, she found it dull. She was restless, and though she could attribute that in part to her sister's absence, the fact of the matter was that _everything_ had seemed rather dull since the masked ball.

It was in the fourth and final act, as she stared numbly at the set piece—the cloisters of a monastery—that she heard the voice. _His_ voice, right in her ear, quiet and melodic: "Ah, the little fawn returns!"

She whipped her head about in all directions, but she did not see him. The others gave no indication of having heard anything, so she settled back against her chair, convinced that she must be imagining things.

But again he spoke, and more grimly this time: "I believe you have something of mine, Mlle. Toussaint."

She stiffened, her fingers tightening on the ends of chair arms. She most certainly had not told him her surname. Once again she sought the source of the voice, and she could sense an almost tingling presence in the air around her.

"Any efforts to locate me will be in vain, I am afraid. You are in _my_ opera box now," he cautioned, "and you will find the door locked at present should you attempt to flee. You would do well to listen to my instructions."

Clara now supposed that the faulty lock in box nineteen had not been a mere mechanical failure. She released a soft but shaky exhalation of breath and stilled herself in her chair. She craned her neck as if to say, _I'm listening_.

"I understand that you and your family attend the opera weekly," he said. "Therefore, you will bring the item in question, sealed in an envelope, when you return next week. You will hand that envelope to your box-keeper with the instruction to pass it on to Madame Giry, and she will see that it is delivered to me."

She gave a slight nod to indicate that she understood. The performance continued as though nothing supernatural was happening in the very same auditorium.

"I leave you to suffer at the hands of this tedious production," the voice continued. "Do not disappoint me next week, mademoiselle, or I shall be forced to take drastic measures."

She knew when he left soon after because the strange presence disappeared—and though she could not be sure, she thought she heard the faint click of the door unlocking in the salon behind her.

She did not hear one word of the remainder of the act.

Afterward, she stalled on the way out of the box, fussing with her mantle so that she might be the last to exit. Madame Giry was posted dutifully at the door.

"Madame," Clara addressed her, "might I inquire as to the name of the gentleman who so kindly offered up his loge this evening?"

The older woman puffed up slightly, as though it was one of life's great honors to be asked such a question. "It is most curious, mademoiselle," she said. "He told me that I was not to reveal his identity to anyone who asked—unless, he said, that someone was a lady with fawn-colored hair and blue eyes. I presume that to be you? In which case, I am to give you this." She withdrew a small envelope from the folds of her dress and handed it to Clara.

There, written in red ink and a spidery, clumsy hand, was her name: _Mlle. Clara Toussaint._ She swallowed her surprise and tucked the note into her bodice, thanking Madame Giry on her way out.

The envelope burned a hole into her chest the entire ride home, and it was not until she was attired for bed and quite alone in her room that she allowed herself to open it. The letter comprised only two words.

 _Try harder_.

She gawked at the page. He was toying with her, surely! Was this all a game to him?

But more importantly...did he expect her to play?


	4. Farewell

_Try harder_.

The written words of the phantasmic matador—or the phantom, as she now thought of him—kept Clara up that night. She could barely admit it, but the letter had thrilled her; after all, it was somewhat of an invitation, was it not? As though he was begrudgingly amenable to her discovering his identity. And she did _so_ want to find out: Who was this man who talked of Egyptian goddesses and Persian friends and enigmas, who opened locked doors with no effort, whose mesmerizing voice had somehow leapt from his larynx to murmur into her ear?

She did not understand him in the slightest, and that terrified her.

Terrified and _delighted_ her.

Because he was different, and because he must have seen something in her besides her obvious fear in order to keep talking to her as he had. At least, she hoped that was the case. And then she silently berated herself for hoping, because he had fully confessed to being dangerous.

Still, the notion of "finding" him ate away at her brain through the following morning until she finally resolved to take further action. She would write to the keeper of box five at the Opera, she determined. If Madame Giry would not reveal further details of the man's identity, then perhaps she would at least be kind enough to direct Clara to someone else who might.

After lunch, she and her aunt retired to the drawing room; Margot remained in bed for the day. Aunt Céleste resumed an ongoing embroidery project, and Clara sat at the writing desk to draft her correspondence, planning to throw in a letter to her cousin Gisèle—Céleste's daughter—as a cover.

She had managed to write only the date when Margot's maid, Hortense, appeared in the doorway and apologized profusely for interrupting them. "I thought you ought to know that Mademoiselle Margot's illness has taken a bad turn," she said. "She is burning up with fever and has not so much as sat up all day."

Clara and her aunt exchanged brief but wary glances. Margot had been ill for days already; no one afflicted with a common cold would spike a fever so late.

"Thank you, Hortense," Céleste said, setting down her embroidery. "Please see to it that Dr. Leblanc is summoned."

The doctor deemed the symptoms inconclusive and gave instructions to call on him if Margot's condition worsened. Clara spent much of the afternoon pressing cold cloths to her twin's face and neck as she slept a fitful sleep.

The next morning, while coughing something fierce, Margot complained of a sharp pain in the right side of her chest. Dr. Leblanc returned. The room was tense and silent as he listened to her heart and lungs, and once he'd folded up his stethoscope he confirmed what they had been afraid to guess: pneumonia. "It will be worse because it is secondary to the cold that she had," he warned them, "but she is young and otherwise healthy, so there is no reason not to be optimistic."

But the illness ravaged her body so quickly that there was not even time for optimism to sprout. The infection spread from her right lung to her left. She suffered bouts of delirium and insomnia and began to fade into the endless white pillows that were fluffed and replaced for her comfort. The doctor bled her forearms with a lancet to provide her some relief, noting that while he would not do so under many circumstances, she was "young and otherwise healthy"—that phrase again. Its repetition gave them all false hope.

It had been a Thursday when she came down with the fever. Sunday evening, they wired Clara and Margot's father, Henri, to tell him to come home.

He arrived the following day and joined his family in the bedroom, swallowing a reaction to what Clara assumed was the smell: the mustard seed poultice applied to Margot's feet, the egg-and-brandy mixture that was coaxed down her throat every few hours, the general stench of illness and sweat.

Though her eyes were hazy with sickness, Margot spotted him immediately and managed a feeble smile. He held her hand and then reached to the opposite side of the bed to grab Clara's as well. Céleste moved in between her nieces, taking their free hands to complete the circle, and the four of them were quietly reunited as a family while Clara tried to choke back a sob.

The three of them—Clara, Céleste, Henri—kept vigil at Margot's bedside. Clara studied her father in those long hours. His face was quite similar to hers: oval shape, blue eyes, slightly aquiline nose. He kept taking off his round wire spectacles to rub his eyes, and she wondered when the crow's feet had set in. When had the gray streaked through his honey-brown hair so that it no longer matched Margot's in hue? She so rarely saw him now. Would the present circumstances change that?

No one spoke of the future, but Margot knew. Clara could see it in her doe-brown eyes: her sister knew that she was dying, and she was trying to fight it, and she was terrified. She was essentially drowning, slowly and painfully, as her lungs filled up with mucus and turned her labored breathing into the dreaded "death rattle" characteristic of the disease. Her skin was clammy and glistened with sweat. Her breaths came in long gasps. Her lips and nailbeds had begun to turn blue, and she struggled to keep her eyes open.

On Tuesday, Dr. Leblanc administered a tartar emetic by dissolving a few granules of the poisonous salt in wine, hoping that it would cause her to expel some of the mucus clogging her lungs. At the very least, he said, it would help her sleep.

The treatment did not work as an expectorant, but it did lull her into a deep sleep that likely eased her suffering. Her breathing became more erratic, and her heart rate slowed to a glacial pace. A priest arrived to administer last rites.

It was six o'clock in the evening when Margot—young, otherwise healthy Margot—slipped away from them to join her mother, never to wake from her slumber.

* * *

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of tears and prayers and to-do lists and black crêpe mourning garments and flowers and cards and then, finally, silence. Emptiness. Clara tucked herself into bed and sobbed until her throat hurt and her eyes swelled and she could barely breathe. She was still crying even as she finally slid into sleep.

She woke with a start sometime in the middle of the night. It had felt urgent that she wake up; why? Had she been dreaming?

And then she saw them, in the vast, dark space between her bed and the window, just an arm's length away: two glowing golden orbs.

She instinctively opened her mouth to scream; it was stifled by a bony hand so quickly that all she managed was a muffled squeal.

"Do that again," said the phantom quietly, "and it will be your neck that I reach for next time."

Her heart pounded. She nodded her understanding, and he removed his hand, stepping back a few paces as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Behind him, the curtains were parted, the window cracked open. In the slice of moonlight that cut into the room, she could see that he was enveloped in a black cloak. In place of the bullfighter's hat there was now a simple black top hat—but he was _still_ wearing the full black face mask that she had seen at the ball.

"This is entirely inappropriate," she said, almost in a whisper. "Are you mad?"

He smiled grimly. "' _When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies_?'" It sounded like a recitation, but she could not place the text. Then his smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "I'll have you know, mademoiselle, that I have made an effort not to ruffle feathers of late, at the request of a terribly meddlesome acquaintance of mine. But I am finding this restraint...tiresome. Especially tonight."

He drew closer and peered down at her, the amber glow of his eyes all she could make out of his facial features. There was a grave finality to his tone when he said, "You did not attend the Opera this evening."

She had not even remembered that she was supposed to be there. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and clutched the blankets against her chest. "None of my family did, monsieur, as you may have noticed. I apologize, but it was hardly a personal slight."

He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing the width of the room. "Surely you could have found another way to return what is rightfully mine? Between this incident and your pathetic attempt to learn my name, I am astounded by your lack of imagination."

Any other day, she might have blanched at his insult, perhaps even shed a tear. But she was devoid of all tears and all color, and she'd had enough of his abasement. She slid out of bed. "You seem to find it amusing, baiting me with your hidden identity," she said as she put her dressing gown on over her nightdress.

Her voice was hoarse and flat, and she knew based on their soreness that her eyelids were still red and swollen. "Well, monsieur matador, I cannot play your game. My sister"—here her voice quivered, and she paused to steady it—"my sister passed away yesterday. I have hardly slept for days, and in a few short hours I must see to mourning and funeral arrangements." She crossed the room and extracted his ring from her jewelry box, then held it out to him. "So you see, I will not be embarking on a wild goose chase to learn the name of a madman who is completely devoid of respect or feeling."

His jaw hardened ever so slightly. He reached out and gingerly plucked the gold band from her open hand. His long, skeletal fingers were quick and dexterous, like spider legs. They felt cool and calloused where they brushed against the skin of her palm, and a shiver went up her arm.

He tucked the ring into his waistcoat pocket as he replied, "A bold choice of words, little fawn, if you truly think me a madman."

She briefly shut her eyes. How strange that it was almost soothing to hear his voice: a rich, supple tenor that provided such a sharp contrast to the rattling cough that had assaulted her ears over the past week. Being in the presence of his voice was like being in a warm embrace. And perhaps that embrace bore the false security of a python encircling its prey before suffocating it, but the threat of death was not so scary when she already felt dead inside. And did she really think that he was a madman?

When she reopened her eyes, he was watching her inscrutably. "You are mistaken," he said, "for I am indeed capable of feeling. Too capable, in fact! It has been my undoing. But I leave you to mourn in peace." He tipped his hat ever so slightly as he backed up toward the window. "My condolences, mademoiselle."

Her mind flashed forward to what she would feel like in the wake of his departure: as though she were being set adrift in the world, alone, without a thing to cling to. "Wait," she said. She found herself extending a palm as though to physically stop him from leaving, and he halted, his face now in the shadow. "Would you stay a moment, monsieur? I could use the distraction."

"I do not exist for your leisure."

She flushed but felt her irritation rising, accelerated by her lack of sleep and general misery. "You seem more than willing to talk to me when it is on your own terms," she snapped.

He was quiet for a moment. "I concede your point," he replied, "but I will not stay. Goodnight, mademoiselle." He turned so his back was to her and pushed open the two panels of the window so that they swung out onto her small balcony.

"Monsieur?" she called out.

He stopped. He did not respond, but rather stood motionless, waiting.

"When you asked about my hopes and aspirations, at the ball? I said what I thought that anyone would want to hear."

He turned slowly to face her. "And what would you have said, had you been honest?"

"I hardly even know," she replied. "I have never been expected to want anything else. Regardless...is it really so wrong to want nothing more than to love and be loved?"

"It was duty, not love, that you spoke of," he corrected her. "Commitment and love are not necessarily one and the same. The sooner you realize that, the better." He turned back to the window and, sweeping his cloak about him, slipped back out into the night.

* * *

The madness quotation is from _Don Quixote._


	5. The Bridge

A/N: I'm so grateful for all of your feedback on the last chapter, and I'm sorry for any distress that its events may have caused. ;) I hope it becomes clear that Margot's fate was meant to be a catalyst and not merely to provide shock value! As always, reviews are greatly appreciated.

* * *

It was late, and Clara had been sitting up in bed, lamp burning at her bedside, for almost an hour. Her eyes remained fixed on the same spot: the small brass clock perched on the mantel of her cream marble fireplace. The seconds ticked by, cruel in their apathy. They halted for no one.

Just over six weeks had passed since her sister's death, six weeks that felt like both a single day and a lifetime. Her world had been thrown off-kilter, and she struggled for balance. Her father and aunt had managed to reclaim some semblance of a regular life, mourning rituals aside, but she had not. Could they not see that she was drowning, or did they simply not know how to save her?

She no longer searched for glowing amber eyes in the darkness; she had heard nothing more from the phantom now that he no longer needed anything from her. She told herself that she ought to be relieved, but in some of her darker moments, she fantasized about him breaking in through the balcony again to pluck her from the misery that was now her life.

The little clock struck midnight, ushering in a new day. April twenty-first. It felt no different from the days or weeks before it.

She surveyed her room. She had long been in love with its paneled walls of robin's egg blue, its curtains the color of terracotta, its furniture of glossy Brazilian rosewood and ivory upholstery. She especially loved the quilted bedspread, a soft tapestry of leaves and flowers in gold and coral winding across a milky white background. It reminded her of a quilt from her childhood—long ago turned to rags—that she had been told was her mother's favorite.

Now, that same room felt suffocating. She had barely left it of late. "Enough," she whispered, and she climbed out of bed to get dressed.

It had been a long time since she'd had to lace a corset herself, and she grumbled through the entire process. Next came a simple black dress and, she decided, a hat with a black mourning veil. She may have been so apathetic as to wander outside, alone, in the middle of the night, but she at least cared enough to conceal her identity—if only for the sake of the family name.

She donned her most comfortable pair of shoes, which she'd squirreled away despite their worn heels and frayed buckles, and she crept down the stairs and straight out the front door. The house was quiet, hardly any different from how it was during the day. Clara often thought about how much her sister would have _hated_ the mourning process: the dark clothing, the withdrawal from social functions, the somber silence that permeated the Toussaints' house. In the week of the funeral, she had pictured Margot rolling her eyes as she looked down on the morbid spectacle from heaven, and it had made her smile.

That may have been the last time she'd smiled.

She walked without intention. She traveled southwest, through the wealthy Jewish district and down toward the Seine. There were still people out and about, but they seemed to pay her no mind.

She reached the water some fifteen minutes later and cut west, breathing in the crisp air as she traversed the riverbank. The night sky was clear and she thought of the sky-goddess Nut, arching over the earth to wrap humanity in her inky embrace. At least, that was how she liked to imagine the deity. She hoped that Margot, too, was in a loving embrace somewhere in the heavens.

Soon she could see the Louvre ahead and to her right. In the back of her mind, she wondered how long she would let herself keep walking like this; there was still the question of getting back home. These were the sorts of details that she would have worried herself sick over, once upon a time, but now she could not will herself to care. It was too draining on a mind already thick with fog.

Just to her left was a wide pedestrian bridge over the river, the Pont des Arts, and she pivoted toward it as though pulled by an invisible force. Stepping onto its familiar wooden planks brought back memories of walking side by side with her sister on the same bridge, each of them trying to discreetly make the other laugh without catching the attention of their father and aunt behind them. Margot usually won.

Clara was coming to realize that she had only ever seen herself in the context of her sister. They had always been different individuals, yes, but they had each functioned as one half of a unit. Now, that unit was broken, dismantled, fallen to the wayside. She was useless—a leftover part. Indeed, there were mornings when she looked at her reflection in the mirror and thought, _I am nothing._

And that was what she felt, most days: nothing. An absence of feeling. How strange it was that an absence should weigh so heavily on her.

Halfway across the bridge, she pushed back her veil and leaned over the iron railing to peer down at the water, tar-black with rippling streaks of amber light from the gas lamps. What a relief it would be to end the nothing, to not have to try and function anymore! And then, just as suddenly as the thought had come to her, she was scaling the guardrail. She carefully climbed the latticed iron and sat atop it next to a lamppost, which she used to steady herself with one hand as her legs dangled high above the river.

She could swim, of course. Twenty-three seasons at her family's summer home by the sea had seen to that. But surely the momentum of the fall, combined with the chill of the water this time of year, would make it difficult to resurface. All she would have to do would be to stay still. Let go.

 _Go on, then_ , the ripples seemed to murmur. _No one will miss you._

But her cowardice and her Catholic conscience pervaded even the nothingness, and she knew that she would not jump.

"We meet again, little fawn."

The words were spoken softly behind her, but they startled her nonetheless, and all it took was a small, reactive movement on her part for her to start slipping off the guardrail. She threw her arms around the lamppost at the same time that two hands shot out to steady her from behind, forming a firm grip where her waist met her hips. Thin fingertips dug sharply into her hipbones.

"I'm alright, thank you," she said once she'd caught her breath. The hands released her without question. In her periphery she saw their owner move to her right, stiffly facing the water, as though he had begrudgingly stopped to sightsee. He was far enough away that she could not reach out and touch him, but close enough that she supposed he could easily aid her again if need be. She could make out the same black cloak, top hat, and mask in which she had last seen him.

She briefly closed her eyes, feeling her heart flutter against her ribcage. So he was always going to turn up in her lowest moments, was he? Was this some kind of odd divine intervention, or had he been following her?

"How curious," she said, "that you should turn up in this very location, in such a large city, at such strange hours."

"I could say the same of you, mademoiselle," he replied. He cast a sidelong glance at her, but she was not ready to explain herself. She was not even sure that she _could_ explain herself. He seemed to ascertain this and added, "I am here frequently. I have found that my presence is often enough to deter those who come intending to jump."

"Often," she repeated. "But not always?"

"Not always."

"Then you have seen—?"

"Nine, in the past year. More women than men."

She shuddered, and then a thought occurred to her. "Monsieur, do you mean to imply that you come here solely in hopes of deterring jumpers?"

"I do."

She weighed this evidence alongside his rather fortuitous timing where she was concerned. "Are you an angel, then?" she asked lightly.

He laughed outright—that same sad, unsettling cackle that he'd produced on the night of the ball. "I am as much an angel as you are a sky-goddess," he replied. "Farther from it, even."

"I thought of Nut on my walk here," Clara said. "She sounds lovely."

He regarded her with what appeared to be thoughtful silence. Then he stated, almost gently, "She is also the protector of the dead."

This momentarily robbed her of breath, and she could not help the few tears that slipped down her cheeks even as she nodded in acknowledgement. "That's good," she whispered.

"Perhaps," he said, "but it seems to me that it is more often the living who need protection." He pressed his skeletal hands to the iron railing as he stared somewhere off in the distance. "Why are you here, Mlle. Toussaint?"

She considered this for a moment. "It's my birthday," was her eventual reply, soft and hesitant.

"And I suppose you wish me to express some sort of sentiment."

She shook her head. "I wish to skip the day entirely."

He was silent, still looking out over the water, and she cast her gaze in the same direction. The river that had beckoned her to her death only moments before now seemed tranquil—almost consoling—when she watched it alongside her phantom. Perhaps it was that sense of reassurance that coaxed the explanation from her lips: "It is my sister's birthday as well."

He nodded once, slowly, in understanding. "I offer my condolences again."

"Thank you." She looked down at her hands, which rested in her lap, twisting and toying with the black crêpe of her overskirt. "Do you suppose it's possible that God took the wrong twin, monsieur?" she asked. She felt immediate guilt for questioning the divine, but still she forged ahead. "Margot was the strong one, the survivor."

"I think the present circumstances indicate that such is not the case."

And then she was crying again, soundlessly, the tears running in rivulets down her face. She hadn't been able to cry in weeks under the weight of the nothingness, and some relief escaped with the tears. If the phantom noticed, he did not say anything.

Finally, Clara wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. The cold night air stung her face in the spots where moisture remained, but it felt good, in a way. "To lose her feels like losing breath," she confessed. "I cannot _breathe_. Have you ever felt such a loss?"

"Not from losing a wombmate, but I have felt tremendous loss."

The phantom had a past. Of course he did; she had just never thought to wonder about it. She pivoted slightly to face him. "Why do you always wear a mask, monsieur?"

And now he turned to regard her in kind. His eyes burned, alive and dangerous. "So as not to unleash the furies of Hell upon this earth," he said, his voice a bit harder. "Beneath this mask lies death itself."

She did not doubt his conviction, but she could think of nothing so horrible on a human face as to warrant such a description. Of course, if his eyes were any indication, perhaps there was reason to doubt that he _was_ human.

"Suppose it were my dying wish to see the man behind the mask," she said. "Would you show me then?" It was as though, on this marked occasion, her sister's spirit—with its enviable confidence and playfulness—was infiltrating her body. In Clara's present condition, all but dead to the world, it was nearly impossible to feel shame or fear. Margot, she realized, must have felt a similar infallibility, except hers had come from a general zeal for life.

The phantom frowned and turned back to face the Seine. "It would be an undeservedly torturous exit, for that to be the last thing you saw in life. No, Clara, you shall never see this face."

Something deep inside of her tightened, exhilarated, at the sound of her Christian name on his lips. Comfortable silence passed between them. She leaned against the lamppost and pressed her cheek to its cool surface as she took in the reflection of the city lights across the river.

"I do not pretend to have known your sister," he remarked, "but I doubt this is how she would have wanted you to honor her memory."

"I was not planning to jump," she replied, "if that's what you mean."

He spun toward her so quickly that it frightened her. "Then you ought to stop with these foolish theatrics!" he snapped. He thrust out a hand—his left hand, which she noticed was absent the gold ring despite its return. "Come down from there."

"Yes, monsieur," she said meekly. She lowered her feet onto the guardrail on the side opposite the bridge, intending to turn around and climb back over with his assistance. What she had not foreseen, though, was that the frayed buckle of her right shoe would snap just as she turned to face him. The shoe slipped off, sending her foot and leg tumbling with it. She simultaneously dropped and fell forward, smacking her forehead on the iron rail, and amid the searing pain and confusion that followed she somehow lost her grip. The last thing she saw as she was hurtled back into the icy waters of the Seine was a pair of bony white hands lunging for her and missing.

She plunged into the river like a sack of potatoes. It was cold, _so_ cold, a bath of tiny ice-daggers pricking her skin as the weight of the water seemed to punch her in the chest over and over again. Everything was suffocatingly black and her head throbbed and as far as she knew, the surface was impossibly far away.

It was too easy, too preferable to lose consciousness down here. And so she did.


	6. The Persian

A/N: I've supplemented this chapter with a few small details from Kay and ALW, where it made sense to do so and/or where Leroux was otherwise lacking in description.

Thank you thank you thank you for your kind words on the last chapter, especially you guest reviewers who should get accounts so that I can respond to you properly. ;)

* * *

Consciousness came back to her erratically, in fleeting interludes. Clara caught snippets of reality that were gone before she could make sense of them: a throbbing in her head, a male voice, a glow of orangey-yellow light.

When she finally woke for good, her brain registered two things: a rust-colored canopy directly above her, and the fact that she could not move her arms or legs. Panic seized her as she tried to recall what had led up to her present situation: the bridge. The phantom. A broken shoe, a terrifying fall, icy water...oh, God, was she _paralyzed_?

It took her longer than it should have to realize that she could still _feel_ her arms and legs despite their restricted movement. Further investigation revealed that she was swaddled like an infant in ivory wool blankets, the interior of the cocoon serving as a small furnace for her river-soaked limbs.

She freed her arms from their binding, cringing when she saw that they were bare, and sat up on what she could now see was a four-poster bed. With some trepidation, she unraveled the blankets on her person and peered down. She flushed to discover that she was in only her chemise and drawers, the linen still slightly damp and translucent.

She pulled the blankets back around her as she scooted off the bed to stand and take in her surroundings. The bedroom was modest, with mustard-yellow walls and a window draped in reddish curtains that matched the bed canopy. There was a small dresser and a washstand with a peculiarly tall and narrow pitcher, its metal spout and handle forming delicate curlicues. On the bedside table to her left sat a beautiful tulip lamp of cobalt blue glass and clear dangling crystals and a shiny brass base. The scent in the air was a warm, curious blend of oniony cooking and saffron and shaving soap.

Was this... _his_ home?

A glance into a mirror mounted nearby confirmed that her hair was wet and stringy, its color deepened from caramel to burnt sugar. Worse still, there was a nasty, swollen bruise forming right in the center of her forehead. She poked at it and winced at its tenderness.

Clara padded on bare feet to the one part of the room that she had intentionally overlooked: a wooden clotheshorse propped up in front of a small cast-iron heating stove. Draped over the clotheshorse were her dress, petticoats, stockings, and corset; her stomach fluttered with embarrassment. It was when she lifted one edge of the corset to gauge its dampness that she saw the laces had been sliced clean through, and she briefly wished for a chasm to open in the earth beneath her feet and swallow her whole.

The door creaked open behind her. Startled, she dropped the corset and whirled around to face her visitor.

He appeared equally startled: an unimposing man with brown skin, jade eyes, and a dark, impeccably trimmed beard. He sported a boat-shaped hat of black wool but was otherwise attired in typical western dress.

"Mlle. Toussaint," he addressed her. He pulled his hat down to his chest, revealing a thin crop of hair slightly grayer than his beard, and bowed slightly at the waist. "I am glad to see you awake, but you ought to be resting. Please, have a seat." He gestured to a small armchair behind her. "We are fortunate in that I have just put the kettle on."

Clara obeyed, not knowing what else to do. The stranger seemed interested enough in her well-being that she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. "You know my name, but I am afraid that I do not know yours, Monsieur...?"

"Nadir Khan," he answered, "but you may call me Nadir. I am a friend of Erik's."

"Erik?"

He smiled grimly and moved to sit across from her on the edge of the bed. "The one who fished you out of the Seine."

"The masked man?" she confirmed, and she was rewarded with a curt nod. _Erik_. Such an ordinary name for a seemingly extraordinary person. "I feel terrible that he had to swim the Seine on my account," she said.

"He did have some choice words regarding what he termed your 'juvenile foolishness.'"

She felt her cheeks color. "And where is he now? Did he bring me here?"

"He did." Her companion folded his hands into his lap. "You are in my flat on the Rue de Rivoli, not terribly far from the bridge, which I imagine is why he came here." He spoke with a measured calm, his eye contact soft but unwavering. He was actually quite handsome despite his years, she realized, but his face was etched with lines that spoke of hardship and exhaustion.

"Erik has gone home to change," he continued, "and to collect some of your things so that you will have dry clothes yourself."

Her eyes widened at the thought of the phantom rifling through her dresses and lacy underthings. Nadir threw her a curious glance, and she quickly replied, "I hope that he is not seen."

He dismissed her words with a faint wave of his hand. "Erik is never seen unless he wishes to be."

She could not help herself. "Monsieur Nadir...what _is_ he?"

"Erik is many things," he said. "A genius. An architect, composer, scholar, magician."

"But you are certain that he is a man?"

At that, Nadir smiled sadly. "Yes, he is very much a man. It is both his downfall and his saving grace."

Clara was deterred from learning what he meant as her stomach chose that precise moment to emit a low rumble. She wrapped her arms further around her midsection, hoping that the sound had not carried.

No such luck. "I am sorry; I should have offered you something to eat," said Nadir.

"If it's all the same to you, monsieur, I would rather wait for a change of clothes first."

He shrugged with easy acquiescence. "So we wait for Erik, then."

It was a new experience, to await the masked man rather than have him turn up in the most unexpected, unsettling of ways. But this, too, was nerve-racking in its own right. It allowed plenty of time for the expectant tension in her muscles to build, for her pulse to increase, for her brain to agonize over the right thing to say or do.

She was struck by a sudden recollection. "When we met at the Mardi Gras ball, Erik indicated that a Persian had convinced him not to die," she said, rather more bluntly than she had intended. "Was that you?"

The surprise in his face was almost indiscernible, but she caught it. "Did he?" Nadir said. "Yes, I suppose that would have been me."

"And you are...good friends?"

He smiled softly. "That likely depends on whom you ask, and when." He had been turning the felted hat over and over again in his hands for the duration of the conversation, and he now returned it to his head. "We met in Persia long ago, when I was the daroga—the chief of police—of Mazandaran. One could say that the two of us have had more than our fair share of...adventures."

She opened her mouth to press him further but was startled into silence by the loud slam of a door outside the bedroom. "Daroga!" boomed that now-familiar voice. "This lock is deteriorated beyond excuse. Must I remind you again to replace it?" Erik's shadowy figure darkened the bedroom door frame. "It is far too easy to—" He caught sight of her and froze.

"No one would care to break into my home but you, Erik," Nadir assured him, "and a new lock would hardly deter you."

But it was Clara whom Erik watched as the Persian spoke. "Mademoiselle," he addressed her curtly.

She acknowledged him with a nod, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Monsieur."

"I see that you are...alive."

"I have you to thank for that," she said softly. "Please accept my sincerest gratitude."

He did not respond. A teakettle whistled in the distance, and the daroga stood and cleared his throat. "Excuse me while I fetch your tea," he said to her, sidestepping the thin figure in the doorway.

The awkward silence stretched onward as Clara and her rescuer regarded each other. Finally, Erik tossed a bundle onto the bed next to her. "Dry clothes," he said. "I shall leave you to avail yourself of them." He made a swift exit, pulling the door shut behind him.

Clara stared at the space that he had just occupied. Was he upset with her? She supposed that she would be, were she in his position. She woefully shucked off the blankets and peeled damp white linen from her skin. She then spread out the clothing from Erik, noting with further embarrassment—really, would there be no limit to her mortification tonight?—that he had not missed a single item she would need. He had even included her hairbrush, and once she'd dressed she took to untangling the angry knots wound by the River Seine.

It felt like ages before she felt sufficiently clothed and presentable, but still she paused at the door, knowing that she would be the focus of attention once she left the bedroom: she and her near-deadly foolishness, inconveniencing these two gentlemen in what she assumed were the small hours of the morning.

She did not intend to eavesdrop, but she could not help but hear their low conversation as she hovered at the door.

"You act as though the lock has been an ongoing problem," Nadir was saying. "Let us entertain the possibility that it was rendered defective when you kicked in my door just hours ago."

"It was a well-placed kick. My arms were obviously full. Come now, daroga; does diving off a bridge to save a life win me none of your favor? These heroics were your idea, after all!" It had not even occurred to her that he would have jumped from the bridge to get to her, though in retrospect it made sense. Heroics, indeed.

"That was not what I meant when I suggested that you seek atonement," the Persian replied.

She wished desperately to know what they were talking about, to understand the mystery and secrecy that shrouded Erik and his friendship with Nadir. Erik's reply did nothing to shed light on the transgressions for which he atoned. "Invest as much faith in your god as you wish, daroga, but I'm sparing unlucky souls the misfortune of finding out whether he truly exists."

Nadir sighed. "And has that changed your outlook on life?"

A pause. "No."

She heard the clinking of china as Nadir rerouted the discussion. "So was it an act of omission when you failed to mention that you'd met Mlle. Toussaint previously?"

"I can hardly be expected to provide a personal history each time I bring an unconscious woman to your flat."

"And I must insist that this be the _only_ time you bring an unconscious woman to my flat."

"Who can say what the future holds?" There was a lightness to Erik's tone, and Clara pictured him shrugging nonchalantly as he toyed with his friend. It made her smile.

The Persian was likely not smiling, if the sound of his concern was any indication. "Erik, I really must insist that you tell me—" He stopped abruptly, as though halted by an unseen force.

All was quiet for several seconds, and then Erik's voice spoke directly into her ear: "Are you quite finished then, mademoiselle?"

She sprang back from the door as though she'd been stung. He had an amazing talent, to be sure, but she remained unsettled to be on the receiving end of it. She took a deep breath and opened the door, her heart hammering and cheeks hot with shame.

She found herself facing a small sitting area. Beyond the space was a nook with a modest mahogany dining set—where Nadir now stood, holding a teapot—and the nook abutted a small kitchen. It was perhaps the smallest residence she had ever been in, but it felt cozy. She supposed that a single occupant would have little need for much else.

Erik sat on a low Turkish-style divan to her right, and his long legs were stretched out to rest on a soft red ottoman. It was the first time she had seen him without his cloak, and she was surprised to find his attire so sharp and well-tailored: a black swallow-tailed jacket over a black waistcoat and crisp white shirt, black wool pants, a white cravat. His hair was a dark, shiny chestnut hue.

In that fleeting second in which she entered the room, he was the most relaxed she had seen him thus far. At the sight of her, however, he swept his legs off of the cushion and sat up rigidly. They stared at each other for a moment, and then he looked to Nadir expectantly, as if to pass her off. It was not lost on the Persian, who motioned for Clara to join him as he pulled out a chair for her. She walked gingerly past the divan, feeling that strange tingle in the air as she did so.

At the table, where there were two place settings, Nadir poured her a cup of tea. "Forgive me if it is lacking," he said. "I typically brew in my faithful old samovar, but it has only recently met the end of its life. Milk or sugar?"

She shook her head and took a cautious sip. "It is quite good, monsieur, thank you."

Satisfied, he retreated to the kitchen. He returned with two plates, placing one before her and moving to sit opposite her with his own. Each plate was laden with a black-seeded flatbread and some kind of soft white cheese. "It is perhaps simpler than what you are used to," he apologized, "but I'm afraid that I was not expecting company this evening."

"Please, monsieur, you have been more hospitable than I could ever ask for." She smiled at him and bit into the bread, nearly closing her eyes as she lost herself in the solace of its crisp, golden-brown crust and soft, warm center. Seemingly satisfied, Nadir tucked into his meal as well. Erik remained stiff and alert on the divan.

The three of them passed the next few minutes in silence. It was not lost on Clara that she was in a private residence, unescorted, with two strange men in the small hours of the morning. And only moments before, she had sat before them in only her wet undergarments and a blanket.

Stranger still, she hardly cared.

She felt warm and safe. Erik still made her nervous, but no longer in a threatening sort of way; he had saved her life, after all. His presence was almost a comfort now, as though he was a dark and prickly guardian angel. He was not like anyone she had met before; he did not put on airs or waste time with small talk. Rather, he seemed like a person with whom one could simply _exist_ , and that was exactly what she needed right now.

He did not speak until she had finished her meal, when he stood and retrieved his hat and cloak from Nadir's hat-stand. "We ought to leave now, mademoiselle, if you are to return home before your household wakes."

"Yes, of course," she said, pulling herself to her feet. She had not even paid attention to the time, but a clock in the sitting-room revealed that it was nearing four o'clock in the morning.

She exchanged parting words with Nadir Khan, most of which were repeated expressions of gratitude, and it was agreed that, for the time being, she would leave her soggy clothes behind to dry so as not to rouse suspicion in the servants. She was secretly glad of the arrangement, for it meant that she might have a chance to see Erik again.

She followed Erik down the stairs from Nadir's fourth-floor apartment and out onto the boulevard, where the building's cream-colored limestone facade overlooked the Tuileries gardens. She waited while he ducked into the coach house on the ground floor and returned with a large, stunning white horse.

"He's lovely," she said, stroking the creature's flank.

"His name is César. Can you ride?"

"Of course."

"I do not own a sidesaddle."

"I'll make do."

When she was seated behind Erik, both legs draped awkwardly over one side of the horse's back, she found that she had no choice but to wrap her arms around his midsection if she wanted to ride safely. She felt his muscles contract at her touch, felt his ribs even through several layers of fabric, and the contact seemed strangely intimate all of a sudden. She loosened her grasp as much as she could, and they spent the ride in further silence. She did not mind. Her head swayed with pain and exhaustion, and she fought the urge to rest it against his back.

At the facade of her building, Erik brought César to a stop and helped her down onto the pavement. She stood there, uncertain, until he tipped his hat and went to mount the steed again.

"Wait, Monsieur Erik," she pleaded, and he turned back to her. "I—thank you again. But words can be so hollow, I know. I just wish there were some other way I could repay you." In a moment of small courage, she reached out and clasped his hands, squeezing them as Margot had so often done as an expression of gratitude. His fingers were cold and almost sharp in their boniness.

She heard him inhale sharply. She thought she felt his fingers pressing back for one fraction of a second, but then both of his hands flinched and quickly withdrew from hers. "It was nothing, mademoiselle," he said flatly. He spun around, his cloak swirling impressively after him, and was up on César's back for less than two seconds before they were off at a gallop.

Back inside her room, Clara quickly changed back into her nightclothes. She returned her dress and stockings and corset to her wardrobe as though they had never been used. And as she slipped into bed, she realized that her time with Erik and Nadir had been the longest stretch in six weeks in which she had not thought about her sister.


	7. Birthnight, Part One

Upon her return from Nadir's flat, Clara slept until midday. Her sleep was sound, deepened by the demands of physical trauma and utter exhaustion. It was only the rumbling of an empty stomach that roused her, and she sat up in bed with some reluctance—until she saw her dressing table. There was a parcel on it, one that had not been there when she'd fallen asleep.

She got up immediately, putting on her dressing gown and slippers to sit at the little rosewood table. On its surface, wrapped in paper, lay one dozen flawless white roses. Tucked inside the wrapping she found a notecard marked with the same spidery red handwriting that she'd seen before.

 _For your sister_.

She drew a slow, shaky breath. It was still her birthday—Margot's birthday—and though she had no inclination to celebrate, she had planned to visit the cemetery. She was stunned and moved by his perceptiveness.

Once Clara had rung for her maid and dressed in her usual ensemble of black crêpe, she joined her aunt in the sitting-room to while away the ten minutes that remained until lunch, when she intended to devour her weight in bread. Céleste rose from her embroidery to greet her but halted mid-step. "What in heaven's name happened to your forehead, child?" she exclaimed.

"I tripped in the dark on my way to the bathroom last night," Clara said, repeating with faked sheepishness the lie that she had fed her maid. "My head caught the corner of the dressing-table." The bruise looked even more horrendous now, more wine-colored than purple.

"You poor thing," her aunt said, moving forward to kiss her on each cheek. "And on your birthday, no less! Happy birthday, darling, by the way. I have asked the cook to prepare all of your favorites tonight at dinner."

In years prior, birthday dinners had always been a combination of her favorite dishes and Margot's, a request that no doubt irritated the cook every time. Clara forced a small smile, hoping that she looked grateful.

She must have been unconvincing, for her aunt's eyes softened. "I know it is difficult, dear," she said, placing a reassuring hand on Clara's arm. "We all miss her terribly. But without these acts of normalcy to cling to, we may never regain our footing." She returned to her favorite giltwood settee, sinking into the cream-colored upholstery.

Clara sat in an armchair nearby, reaching for the book that her aunt had apparently set out for her that day: _The New Universal Etiquette_ , by one Louise d'Alq.

Though disappointed, she resisted the urge to toss the tome back onto the table, if only because she figured that she could manage just a few minutes of feigned interest until mealtime. She flipped through the pages, scanning for any points of interest.

 _When getting into a carriage or going through a door, girls, until the age of twenty-nine, go before their parents, because it is supposed that the parents must always have their eyes on them._ _On an outing, no matter where, children and young girls thus walk in front of their fathers and mothers._

Snore. Had Céleste honestly thought that any of this would be new to her?

 _A young girl never remains alone in the drawing room with a masculine visitor._

Her cheeks began to warm, and she snapped the book shut. Madame d'Alq would certainly have had a few choice words for her last night.

She was saved by the butler, who came in bearing the silver mail tray. "Message for you, madame," he announced. He made his way over to Céleste, who plucked the letter from the tray and methodically broke the seal.

Anyone but Clara might have missed the slight fall in Céleste's face as her eyes flitted over the correspondence, particularly given the dispassionate way in which she refolded the letter and moved it aside. "Your father sends his regrets," she reported. "He has been detained by business matters and will be unable to attend dinner this evening."

Clara nodded and did not voice her thoughts: Unable, or unwilling? Not that she would blame him for choosing to skip such a painful reminder, though she did not have that luxury herself.

"Auntie," she said, suddenly remembering the roses, "I had hoped to take some flowers to the cemetery today."

"That's a nice thought, dear, but we cannot have you leaving the house with that goose-egg on your forehead! What would people say?"

"That I am devoted to honoring my sister's memory?"

Céleste sighed. "If only it were the nature of society to assume the best of people," she said.

"I will have my veil on," Clara reminded her.

Her aunt let out a short bark of laughter. "That thin crêpe does not even hide your face, Clara!" she exclaimed. She must have seen something sobering in her niece's face, however, because she quickly buried her amusement and patted the girl's hand. "Please, dear, let it rest. We will visit the mausoleum as soon as you are able." Lunch was announced seconds later, and Céleste bustled off to the dining room, leaving Clara to her inner turmoil.

She couldn't fathom not paying a visit to the cemetery on this, her sister's first birthday in heaven. It felt like a betrayal, like something she would regret for a long time to come. It was not in her temperament to pester and anger her aunt, however, and she was not cunning like Margot had been when it came to influencing others.

Oh, Margot. What would she have done had their roles been reversed, had it been Clara entombed in the family mausoleum? Clara knew the answer even as she thought the question: her sister would have snuck out in a heartbeat.

* * *

Around eleven o'clock, she slipped out of the home once again, this time with a red paisley carpet bag and, inside of it, the white rose bouquet. She had decided that she might as well pick up her clothes from the previous night if she was already out.

She would not walk this time. It was too far to the daroga's flat, with too many unknowns, and she was not feeling as reckless as she had the night before. Instead, she slipped into the coach house on the first level of her building to steal a horse.

She crept past a row of gray Percherons to access the hay-lined stall of her own mount, a sweet-tempered bay named Pastille. She typically rode for leisure during the summer holiday only, away from the city, and she had hardly seen the mare since the previous September. Pastille obligingly followed her rider out of the stall and waited, absently flicking her tail, as Clara ducked into the tack room to collect the sidesaddle that had been fitted for the two of them.

She had never saddled a horse before, and she struggled, but the horse was patient as she eventually managed a secure fit. She mounted with the carpet bag and nudged Pastille, and they took off at an easy trot.

At Nadir's building, she led the horse into the coach house that she'd seen Erik use early that same morning. The stalls in the back were full, but there was a hitching post at the forefront of the space. To it was tethered only one horse, snow-white and massive: César. Her stomach flipped.

Several pairs of soft equine eyes peered at her as she tied her mount. There was a sudden stirring in the hay loft, and she nearly jumped out of her skin to meet the sleep-addled gaze of a figure sprawled out in the straw. Her wits calmed enough for her to realize that it was just a stable boy, probably no older than fourteen, his brown eyes framed by a mop of curly blond hair.

"Just hitching this mare," she said, briefly lifting her veil to offer a shy smile. "I shall be back for her shortly."

He rubbed his eyes, nodded, and rolled over. It was only a matter of seconds before he was snoring lightly.

It was fascinating, being out so late at night. The bars and music halls and café-concerts were still alive and bursting with noisy activity, but elsewhere, it was so quiet compared to daytime. She rather liked it. Between the masked ball and the guardian-angel phantom and his Persian friend and the city nightlife, she wondered what else she had missed in her twenty-four years on earth. How much had she still to learn? It made her head swim, contemplating the vastness of her uncharted knowledge.

Four flights of stairs later and she was rapping at Nadir Khan's door. She ought to have notified him of her plans, she knew, but the visit had been uncharacteristically spontaneous of her, with little chance of arranging for a message unnoticed and so late in the day. She hoped that he was still awake. She pushed her veil back so that he could see her face, and she tried not to think of what her aunt would say.

The Persian answered his door in a merlot-colored dressing gown and slippers. He blinked at her, face impassive, before opening the door wider to accommodate her. "By all means, come in," he said with a grand sweep of his arm. "Had I known that there would be a soirée in my own flat tonight, I might have dressed for the occasion."

She stepped across the threshold to find Erik seated on the edge of the divan, his feet planted on the floor and his spindly legs resembling a grasshopper's in the way that his bony knees jutted up and out. He was absently rolling a gold five-franc piece across the knuckles of one hand. When he saw her, he swiftly stood and swept the coin into his palm, where it disappeared. He did not speak.

"Monsieur," she addressed him, with a curt nod, before turning back to Nadir, who had moved to the little kitchen area to fill his teakettle with water. "I am so sorry to bother you at this hour, daroga, but since I can so rarely escape the house unnoticed…"

"Ah, of course, you would like to collect your things. You will find them exactly as you left them in the bedroom, mademoiselle." He held out the kettle. "Can I interest you in some tea? Some wine, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid I have another engagement that I must attend to." She was surprised to see something like disappointment on his face, and she quickly added, "But another time, perhaps?" When that could possibly be, she did not know, but he seemed appeased and she decided not to think about it now. She wondered whether he had any other friends who were not so...difficult.

She knew that Erik was watching her as she busied herself in the bedroom. She could see him in her periphery, once again seated on the divan—but more than that, she could feel the heat of his eyes on her. What she wouldn't have given to know what he was thinking in that moment.

She pulled the bouquet out of the carpet bag and set it on the bed so that she could pack her clothes without crushing the flowers. She did her best to stand between the doorway and her undergarments to block them from view—an exercise in futility, really, since both men had to have seen them already—and once she had everything stowed away, she laid the roses on top of the bundle and snapped the bag shut.

She knew that she ought to thank Erik for the flowers, but it felt too... _personal_ , somehow...to acknowledge the gesture in front of Nadir. She settled for a warm smile instead as she passed from the bedroom to the front door, hoping that her eyes would convey her gratitude. He tracked her movements but remained impassive, even when she said her goodbyes, at which point he offered only a nod.

She was not sure what else she had expected to happen, but she was left wanting as she trekked back down the stairs and into the coach house.

At the hitching post, she untied Pastille's reins and led her out of the building, so caught up in scratching the bay's neck as she murmured syrupy praise that she nearly collided with Erik's cloaked and looming figure out on the street. "Oh!" she cried out. "I'm so sorry, monsieur; I didn't—"

"You have the roses," he interrupted, his voice clipped.

"Y—yes," she confirmed. "I must thank you for—"

He waved her words away. "You cannot cross the cemetery at night, mademoiselle."

"But I must," she insisted. "It would be wrong not to pay my respects on Margot's birthday."

"There are no street lamps. You would not be able to see three feet in front of you, especially not with that ridiculous thing in your face." He motioned to the veil pushed back over her head, which she now realized she had forgotten to lower.

She decided to leave it up. It was only another barrier between her and the already guarded phantom-man. "How do you even know where my sister is buried?" she asked.

"That is irrelevant."

She hesitated, chewing on the inside of her lip. "I will figure something out," she finally resolved. She moved to step into the stirrup but was stopped by his firm grip on her arm.

He turned her to face him. His eyes glinted gold in the night, with a hardness to them that she had not seen previously. "Has it escaped your concern, mademoiselle, that this city is full of predators who would snatch up a stray fawn in a heartbeat?" he growled. "Would you have Erik's efforts last night be in _vain_?" His voice rose steadily with his temper, to the point where he practically shouted the last word.

Oh, she did not like this version of him. _Diffuse the situation_ , her instincts warned her. _Diffuse diffuse diffuse_. "No, Erik," she said placatingly, testing his name on her lips. She thought she saw a flicker of astonishment in that burning gaze.

She could not say what possessed her to do it, but she found herself reaching with both hands for his shoulders, as though to calm or steady him. Her fingertips had not even grazed his cloak before he snatched up one of her wrists, spinning her 180 degrees as his other arm came up to trap her neck in the crook of his elbow. "She-devil!" he hissed, his lips at the back of her ear. "Did I not warn you? The mask comes off for _no one_!"

Immobilized by Erik's arms, and with her back pulled flush against his chest, Clara could feel the current of raw power that coursed through his every muscle. He practically thrummed with it. She had never known anyone who had killed a man, but it was easy to imagine that this thin, angry body had that potential.

"Please," she croaked, the pressure on her windpipe growing more uncomfortable by the second. "I only meant to touch your shoulders."

There was a moment's hesitation, and then he released her with some momentum, so as to put distance between them. He looked unsettled. "Consider that a warning, then," he said, his sonorous voice now a bit gruff around the edges. "You must _never_ touch the mask."

"Yes, monsieur," she whispered. She leaned into Pastille's flank, curling her fingers around the reins to still their shaking. She ought to leave, she knew, but she was paralyzed by indecision. Whatever courage she'd possessed earlier had now abandoned her. She could hardly go to the cemetery now, and yet...she couldn't _not_ go.

As though he was reading her thoughts—or perhaps just her body language—Erik's shoulders seemed to sink with a guilty resignation. "I have never killed a woman, Clara, and I do not intend to start." He reached out to stroke the fuzzy spot just above Pastille's nose, and the mare's ears flicked happily. Seemingly aware of Clara's eyes on him, however, he stopped as suddenly as he had started. "Wait here," he ordered, and he disappeared into the coach house, leaving her to question the implication of his words.

Had he killed _men_?

He emerged a few minutes later, one hand leading César by the reins and the other holding a lantern. "We ride together," he stated. It was clear that the matter was not up for discussion.

He mounted, and she followed suit. Soon they had the two horses side by side in an easy walk, heading east to the Père Lachaise Cemetery.


	8. Birthnight, Part Two

The ride to the cemetery was silent, save for the clip-clopping of horse hooves on pavement. With her body pivoted toward Erik on the sidesaddle, Clara found it impossible not to sneak frequent glances at him. He presented a striking image, the masked man in black atop his snow-white horse. It was as though the elements of her childhood fairytales had been scrambled somehow, the villain having wound up seated on the noble steed. He was not a villain, though; he was...well, he still defied categorization.

He remained stiff and inexpressive, and she was once more struck by the dichotomy between the interactions that he had initiated and the ones where she had seemingly caught him off guard. She wished that he would start talking about sky-goddesses again.

"So what is _your_ excuse for troubling Nadir at this hour?" she asked lightly, trying to spur a conversation.

He maintained his rigid posture and his straightforward gaze, but he did at least speak. "I stopped by to replace the lock on his door."

Oh, she still adored that sonorous voice, so much that she managed to keep her snort of amusement in check. "So late?" she asked instead.

"I have rather nocturnal inclinations," he said. "Though I admit, I relish any excuse to rouse the daroga's irritation."

"And what sort of profession do you have that allows you such freedom? Or do you just not sleep?"

She sensed some hesitation on his part. "I am...between pursuits."

Clara bit back a grin. If anyone could romanticize unemployment, it would be him.

"I have not been forced into unemployment, if that's what you're thinking," he noted curtly. "I am more than able to support myself financially, but I devote myself to grander artistic endeavors, and they do not present themselves conveniently." Those words spoken by almost anyone else would have carried at least a trace of pretentiousness, or perhaps some desire to impress, but she got the sense that Erik was simply trying to explain himself in the only way he knew how. In fact, he had yet to look at her once during the entire trip, and she could see the cemetery entrance up ahead.

"What does one do while awaiting inspiration?" she wondered aloud, and then he _did_ look over at her, his eyes flashing a soft gold.

"That _is_ the question," he replied. He held her gaze for two intense seconds before he resumed facing forward.

And that was when she knew. She could _feel_ the reason behind the masked ball, box five, the note, the appearance in her bedroom, all of it.

Erik was _bored_.

Without an intellectual or artistic pursuit, without—she assumed—any company besides a retired Persian police chief, what was a man of Erik's alleged genius, his cunning, his otherworldliness supposed to _do_?

He had, in fact, tried to engage her in a battle of wits, and she had failed spectacularly. She had spurned his attempts the night he came through her balcony, and then she had proven herself inept with her clumsy fall and her shameful need of rescue. No wonder he wanted nothing to do with her now.

The words came out as soon as she thought them. "I apologize for last night, monsieur."

His head swiveled toward her again. "I beg your pardon?"

"For being so reckless, for...for falling. Such that you had to go in after me."

A pause. "You are apologizing for nearly drowning," he stated, his otherwise flat tone laced with something like dubiousness.

"I can think of no other reason why you should be so cross with me. You must admit, monsieur, that you were far more forthcoming beforehand. In fact," she added, trying to keep her voice light, "I do believe that you were baiting me."

She heard him inhale through his nostrils, as though debating what to say next. "Perhaps I was," he conceded. "I admit it: the night we met, I was restless, and you were an easy target. A diversion."

"Oh," she breathed, her voice catching. She cast her gaze down at Pastille's dark mane, painfully aware of how evident her disappointment was.

"But now..." Erik continued, and she snapped her head up, her heart ballooning with foolish hope. Though he faced the nearing cemetery entrance, he seemed to stare straight through it. "Now...you remind me of me. Hollow." He laughed bitterly. "That is a benign way of putting it. In truth, most days I feel I have been gutted and left for scavengers."

But then his jaw softened, his voice dropping almost inaudibly as he added, "And I dare say that I have not forgotten the image of you in that gown of stars."

Clara felt her chest constrict, her head grow lighter. "But surely these are not reasons to pull away?"

They had reached the entryway, and he motioned for her to stop. When she did, he brought his horse around to stand parallel to hers, facing the opposite direction, so that he could look directly at her. Had she reached out, she could have touched him. His eyes were alight, almost pulsating like warm embers after a fire, and the sight breathed new life into her.

"I find myself drawn to broken things," he said. "I have a near-uncontrollable impulse to fix them, and I cannot give them up until I do."

"That's...that's _good_ , right?"

"Not if the thing is a person." Erik spurred his horse forward one more step until his shoulder aligned with hers, almost touching, and then he leaned in ever so slightly. "We both know that you are broken, Clara," he said quietly. "You have a void within you, and I cannot be the one to fill it."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. There was a soft click of his tongue, and César headed through the cemetery entrance with Erik calling back over his shoulder, "It never ends well."

She urged Pastille to follow the subtle glow of Erik's lantern-light. She hated herself for it, but the more he tried to dissuade her, the more she was drawn to him. She could not explain this phenomenon because it defied logic. It surpassed her brain circuitry entirely and seemed to come from a place of raw biological response, based on the way her heart palpitated and her body ached to remain in his presence.

He had been right: it was a new moon, and she could barely see a thing in the cemetery, even with the aid of the lantern. She clutched the reins tightly and put her faith in both Erik and Pastille, wondering with passing interest how well horses could see in the dark. It was not lost on her that her escort had not asked for the location of the family mausoleum within the sprawling labyrinth of tombs.

Finally he halted, and she drew up close to him to see better. "Here we are," he said. He gestured to an edifice of pale limestone, and she could just make out _Famille Toussaint_ etched into the stone above the mausoleum's pair of wooden door panels, each of which was inlaid with a stained-glass window: one of Christ, one of the Virgin Mary.

She went to dismount and found Erik already at her horse's side, his pale hand laid open and waiting to aid in her descent. She stepped down, pressing her own hand onto his so briefly that she barely registered the contact.

She had his bouquet nestled in the crook of her arm as she dismounted, and now she carefully unwrapped the flowers, setting the paper aside in order to extract a single white rose from the bunch.

"That is generally not how bouquets function," Erik remarked. He looked strangely at ease among the crowded tombs and mausoleums that, with their pitched roofs, jutted up from the ground like rows of sharp, uneven teeth. As though he belonged there.

"You'll forgive me if I reserve a stem for my mother, monsieur," she replied. "My birthday has always been bittersweet in that it's also her death-day, and I've been told that she loved roses." She lifted the blossom to her nose to breathe in its scent, and she could not help the small smile that crept into her face. "Margot, on the other hand, despised them."

Erik straightened sharply. "You ought to have said something," he insisted.

She shook her head. "I think her ire extended mostly to the red ones. Men were forever showering her in them, and she was irritated that they never took the time to find out her favorite."

"Which was?"

"Lilies."

She sensed a hesitation on his part, as though he was considering a response. Instead, however, he set the lantern on one of the low walls framing the entrance to the mausoleum. "Call for me when you are finished," he said. He took up the reins for both her mare and his stallion, and then he walked the horses further down the cobbled streets until she could make out nothing but the faint glow of César's white flank.

The small blue vase that Clara had brought on her last visit sat on the mausoleum step where she'd left it, and she cleared out dried lily stems to make room for the roses. The single blossom she lay on the stone next to the vase.

She said a quick prayer, muttered her usual words of devotion to her mother—now with the added request to watch over Margot—and wished her sister a happy birthday. "I am doing my best to honor your memory," she whispered, fresh tears stinging her eyes, "but it's so hard without you, Margot."

She shouldn't have done it—out of propriety, out of cleanliness, out of God only knew what else but she simply did _not care_ —but she allowed herself to sink to the ground and curl up on the step, against the facade of the mausoleum. She wept openly with her palms pressed to the cold stone, and when she'd spent all of her tears she slumped back against the wall and looked up to the heavens.

"I'm told that I am broken, Margot," she murmured. "I'm ashamed to say that, up until now, I was accepting of that notion. After all, how can I feel whole without my other half?" She fished a handkerchief out of her bodice and dabbed at her eyes and nose. "Well, no more. God has chosen me to carry on for the both of us, and so I suppose I must. But please, please help me, Margot."

The question, then, was this: How did one engage the services of a repairman without his knowing consent?

* * *

Erik insisted on escorting her home as well. She did not protest; the cemetery visit had sapped her of her energy and focus. He seemed to sense this, maintaining a respectful silence until they reached her building and dismounted. He followed her into the coach house and waited at the entrance with César while she returned Pastille to her stall.

He watched Clara as she walked back to him. The cloak that cascaded from his narrow shoulders looked warm and inviting, and it was only then that she realized how cold she was. She shivered, and it did not go unnoticed.

"You ought to return to your bed and stay there," he instructed, his voice tight with all the trappings of a threat. "I trust that you will not be so foolish as to attempt a third nighttime escapade."

She began to nod, her ready compliance with the wishes of others now little more than a reflex at this point in her life. But what had he said about her sense of duty? That it was _positively mundane_? Perhaps he would not mind, then, if she dissented.

She stilled her head and fixed her gaze on him. "I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I am sequestered to my home during the day under the conventions of mourning, and at night I cannot sleep. If it troubles you so much to see me out at night, then perhaps you might give me another occupation."

He bristled, a reaction both formidable and thrilling. "Once again, I am not responsible for your leisure!" he snapped.

"Nor are you responsible for my safety," she said softly, "and yet, here you are." He was silent—had she actually managed to render him speechless?—and she pressed on. This was her window of opportunity. "You said yourself that you are restless. Why should we not help each other? You could...you could teach me."

"Teach you _what_?"

"Anything. Everything. Egyptian mythology, or literature, or...or music. I do play piano, a little."

He stared at her, motionless and inscrutable, for three agonizing seconds before he replied, "I would only bother with a mind worth teaching."

She felt her heart sink into her stomach as the implication of his words set in. But then he reached into his waistcoat pocket and plucked out a small item, glinting in the lamplight, that he held out to her in his open palm. It was a plain brass key, and she looked up at him, questioning.

"Locate my home," he said, "and then we shall talk."

She blinked at him, uncertain, but took the key. Her fingertips grazed his palm, and she recalled with some embarrassment their awkward embrace not twenty-four hours before. But Margot's reassuring squeezes remained in her muscle memory, and she still found herself longing for this man's long, rawboned hands to wrap around her own.

"How long do I have?" she asked.

"One week. And you may not ask the daroga." He turned to lead César out into the street, and she traipsed after him.

"That's it?" she said. "You will not give me a single clue?"

With his back to her, he replied, "As it stands, not a soul has managed to stumble through my front door—not even the angels who watch over it." He practically leapt onto the saddle, and he tipped his hat to her just before he spurred the horse into a near gallop. "Good luck, mademoiselle."


	9. The Key

A/N: Longer one! Enjoy! Please leave feedback! :D

* * *

The room was silent, save for the ticking of the mantel clock that again seemed to mock Clara, this time with an incessant reminder that she was, thus far, a failure. A failure with a mind unworthy of lessons from a masked genius.

It had been three days since Erik had given her the key to his home, and she felt just as clueless as ever. The key now sat on her writing desk, as cruelly unhelpful as the clock, and she stared at it from a chaise across the room as though this new vantage point would somehow help her solve the mystery. It did not.

She sighed, shifted, rubbed her temples. Staring was hardly effective. And she had already considered, at length, Erik's comment about angels watching over his front door: a clue, surely! From the way he'd spoken of religion with the daroga, she doubted that he put much stock in actual cherubs. What made more sense was that his door faced one of the many depictions of angels that dotted the city's architecture—but how on earth would she ever narrow those down?

She was not and likely never would be a fastidious scholar, despite the fact that her schooling had come easily to her. Indeed, that very fact had ensured that any time she was met with a significant challenge, she chalked it up to a character flaw. "I am terrible at mathematics," she would say, despite her respectable marks to the contrary. She extended the same conclusion to any endeavor that felt difficult, and those endeavors almost always involved frustratingly complex analyses. Such as this one.

Why had it always been such a herculean task for her to put effort into something? she wondered. And then the answer came to her, painful and real and sobering: because it did not matter. She could spend hours solving a math or logic problem, but that problem would not help to host a dinner party or produce an heir.

This, though. This mattered.

From her desk drawer she extracted the leather-bound journal that her father had just given her—not in person, of course—as a birthday gift. "All right, Clara," she murmured to herself. "What do we know about Erik and his geography?" She began to list the twenty arrondissements of the city, methodically ruling out any district that he was unlikely to inhabit:

 _1st arr. (Louvre) - NO. Location of Nadir's flat. Would not have taken unconscious woman to Nadir if his own home were an option._

 _2nd arr. (Bourse) - Small, but possible._

 _3rd arr. (Temple) - NO. Erik unlikely to reside among wealthy, who must know everything about everyone. Also, not Jewish._

 _4th arr. (Hôtel-de-Ville) - NO. Same._

 _5th arr. (Panthéon) - NO. Latin Quarter overrun by students. Erik = no tolerance for arrogant youth?_

There was a soft rapping at her bedroom door. She crossed the room to crack it open, peering through the small gap to find Juliette, the lady's maid, staring back with startled green eyes. "Yes?" Clara asked, her voice hushed. She did not wish to draw her aunt's attention, knowing that Céleste would summon her to more drawing-room drudgery should that happen.

Juliette, clearly ill at ease, held out a letter. "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but this arrived for you several hours ago, and since you have not come down to the salon—"

"Oh, wonderful!" Clara snatched up the letter and, without thinking, closed the door in the girl's face. She opened it again just as quickly. "Sorry!" she said. "Thank you, Juliette." She flashed her maid a quick smile and snapped the door shut once more.

"Mademoiselle?" came Juliette's shy voice through the door. "Are you quite well? You seem...different."

Clara, who had been en route to her desk, halted. She could spend all day shut up in her room, but even the servants were bound to suspect something. She would have to come up an excuse for her distractedness and her new proclivity for staying up late.

She went back to the door and peered out at her maid. "I am quite all right," she said. "Thank you for your concern. It's just...I am newly preoccupied with writing a book, and there is so much to do! Research, outlines, drafts...you know."

Juliette's eyes widened in delight. "A book! How marvelous. May I ask what it's about?"

Clara shook her head. "I am already so self-conscious about it that I can't bear to divulge any details just yet. I'm sorry."

"No, no, mademoiselle; it was not my place to ask. Forgive me. I will leave you to your writing."

Clara shut the door and exhaled, her heart pounding with adrenaline. It had been too easy, the lie. She ought to feel more guilt than she did. But Nadir's response awaited, and she hurried to her desk to break the seal.

 _Mlle. Toussaint,_

 _I have received your message and am delighted by the prospect of your company this week. However, as much as I would like to believe that your request to visit is rooted in only the pleasure of my company, I cannot pretend that I am unaware of the vexatious challenge with which Erik has presented you. I feel that I must first apologize for his ridiculousness, and second inform you that I am to provide no information regarding his whereabouts._

 _Should you still wish to keep an old man company during your unusual visiting hours, however, I invite you to stop by tomorrow at midnight. I shall furnish all of the inferior tea that you can drink._

 _Yours respectfully,_

 _Nadir Khan_

Clara folded the letter and stowed it in her desk drawer, the smile spurred by Nadir's reply quickly melting into a frown. She liked the man, and she felt some guilt over her motive for contacting him. She intended to honor Erik's instruction, of course; she would not ask the daroga about his location. Rather, she would simply have to ask Nadir about Erik himself...and hope that he would answer.

* * *

Nadir met her at the door with mild surprise, green eyes scanning quickly as though to confirm her corporeal form. "Mlle. Toussaint!" he exclaimed, motioning for her to step inside.

"Please," she said, "call me Clara." She crossed the threshold and allowed him to take her cloak, and he invited her to sit at the small dining table while he set out tea. Then he retreated to his kitchen nook once more to produce a tray of assorted macarons that he placed in the center of the table.

"I purchased them this afternoon, knowing that you might stop by," he said as he set out dessert plates and napkins. "I must confess, I was prepared to eat them regardless."

"I would hardly expect otherwise," she replied, smiling. She spread a napkin across her lap and gingerly helped herself to one of the confections.

They launched into pleasant small talk, but Clara's nervousness and guilt increased with every passing second until she blurted out a confession: "As much as I truly enjoy your company, monsieur, I must admit that I did, in fact, have an ulterior motive in coming here."

Nadir, who had been sipping his tea, froze for a moment. He returned the cup to its saucer with a gentle _clink_ and regarded her with a fixed smile. "Ah," he said. "I should have suspected as much." He moved a chocolate macaron to his plate. "You wish to know more about Erik, then."

"Yes," she admitted. "I can only hope that he decides not to drop in."

"He did, earlier. I sent him away. Said I wasn't feeling well."

"Do you think that he believed you?"

"Not in the slightest." Nadir bit into his macaron and chewed thoughtfully before he added, "Regardless, he knows that I will not tell you where he lives because I do not want you going there." She was taken aback, and he reached out to pat her hand. "You seem to have a genuine interest in him," he said, "which is...refreshing. But sooner or later, details about Erik and his past will emerge, details that likely will not sit well with you."

His voice dropped, and his green eyes flashed with warning. "Allah help both of you if you were to capture his interest only to shun him later."

She lowered her gaze from the Persian to the table, her teeth pulling at the inside of her lip as she considered her next steps. "Perhaps," she said, "you might indulge my curiosity so that I can make a more informed decision."

He sighed. "I can see that there is no dampening that curiosity. Very well then, Clara, what would you like to know?" She had barely managed to open her mouth before he added, "Let me guess—the mask?" She nodded sheepishly, and he said, "It hides a terrible facial deformity, one that has plagued Erik since birth. Next question."

She had already pegged Erik's artistic endeavors as the best possible source for clues, and so she asked first about his talents as a magician, a ventriloquist, a composer. His skills as an illusionist, she learned, were honed while traveling with a band of gypsies. As for his compositions, he had slaved over a single piece for two decades, only finishing it the previous year. When she asked whether Nadir had heard the piece, he replied, "No. I expect that it will die with Erik."

"Architecture, then," she said. "Which buildings has he designed? Any with which I might be familiar?"

The Persian's eyes darkened. "Do not think that I am blind to your efforts, mademoiselle," he cautioned her. They had long since finished their dessert, and now he stood to collect the plates. "And Allah forgive me, I must no longer indulge this inquisition of yours. Men have died for knowing less of Erik than I have already told you tonight!"

This new information made her stomach flip, but it did not stop her. "But he _must_ expect me to learn it," she countered. "Nadir, he gave me the key to his home! He _wants_ me to play this game."

He paused, and then he sat back down to address her directly. His expression was somber. "These games," he said, "may be all fine and good in the short term. But Erik has long been in a losing battle with himself, and it would be best to keep your distance."

"I know," she conceded. "He practically told me so himself. But, daroga…" She hesitated. She did not know how to explain it, the physical need to be in Erik's presence.

She did not have to. The daroga's face softened and he said, "Erik has a curious magnetism to him, does he not? People are drawn to him as the moon is drawn to the earth, even against their better judgment. I dare say that I have been in his orbit longer than anyone else." He leaned forward ever so slightly. "But that is not the real Erik. The real Erik is beneath the surface, so he will always keep everyone circling at a safe distance, and no closer. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"Do you truly want me to keep going, then?"

She took a deep breath. The excitement of the moment overrode her usual levelheadedness, and she decided that Nadir's warning would be something for future Clara to address. "I do," she told him.

He set his hands on the table, lacing his fingers together, and sighed once more. "Erik built a palace for the Shah of Persia, full of secret passages and trapdoors and other feats of imagination. In fact, in my country they gave him a name that means 'lover of trapdoors,'" he recalled with a fond smile. "He also made meaningful contributions to the Yildiz-Kiosk in Constantinople, and"—here Nadir paused, and she sensed some importance assigned to the words that were to follow—"he had a significant hand in the construction of the Palais Garnier."

She gaped at him. "The opera house? He must be more renowned than I thought!"

The daroga shook his head. "He has downplayed his involvement. That building holds many secrets, mademoiselle, that he does not want unearthed. I implore you to keep this knowledge to yourself."

"Of course." Clara picked up her tea so that she might sit in silence and think for a moment. She recalled how easily Erik had navigated the masked ball, how he had controlled box five without even seeming to be there. And now he turned out to be a lover of trapdoors and secret passageways? She could not help but find it all terribly exciting.

A thought began tickling the back of her mind, and once it took hold she could not shake it off. Erik's actions were indicative of a man who had spent an extraordinary amount of time in close proximity to the opera house—and not just as a contractor, she suspected, for he was still making appearances there.

Also, she was almost certain that there were sculpted angels on that building.

And...where better to hide one's residence than in a place not intended to _be_ a residence? The idea was absurd, but then so was he, in all the best ways.

"I ought to be going," she announced, and as she pushed back her chair he rose to his feet. "I promise, Nadir, that I will visit again soon, truly for nothing more than the pleasure of your company. You have been too kind."

At the door a few minutes later, cloaked and ready to make her exit, Clara had a sudden thought occur to her. She turned to the daroga. "Nadir...what time did Erik bring me to your flat the other night?"

"I'd say about one-thirty."

"And he left shortly thereafter to go home and change?"

"After fifteen minutes or so, yes. Why do you—" Nadir stopped. His face took on an expression of pained realization as he worked out the answer to his own question. He knew what she was thinking, and the fact that it worried him was all the confirmation of her hypothesis that she needed.

But then his stoicism melted, and to her surprise, he chuckled softly. "I underestimated you," he said, "and I suspect that he did, too. Oh, he had best watch out."

He caught her arm once they had said their goodbyes and she'd turned to head toward the stairwell. "The entrance," he said. "It's on the west facade...but the door faces the east."

* * *

Back home, Clara raided her father's study for a ruler, one of his many books about horses, and a map of Paris. She set to making a chronology of Erik's travels after he rescued her from the Seine. Though the work would be difficult for her, the goal was simple: to determine whether everything in the timeline worked out had it been the opera house that he'd traveled to from Nadir's flat—and, subsequently, to her house for clothes before heading back to Nadir's.

Just to be thorough, she wrote time estimates for everything: her departure from her house on the Rue des Filles du Calvaire. Her arrival at the bridge. Her fall, Erik's rescue, his walk to Nadir's flat while carrying her. Nadir's estimate of one-thirty seemed accurate. Working backward from 3:45, when she recalled leaving Nadir's apartment with Erik, she was able to determine when Erik would have arrived with her change of clothes. The tasks grew trickier, though: how much time to allot for him to change or to pack up her things, for example, and how quickly he would have traveled with César, whom he would later use to take her home.

In the end, she had four sets of data for her proposed route, one for each possible speed. She relied on the average speed ranges for each of the four basic gaits—walk, trot, canter, and gallop—as specified in the book on horses.

If Erik had driven his horse to a trot or perhaps a canter—but nothing so fast as a gallop—then her theory held.

She knew that she had built a house of cards; if any one element in her equation changed, then everything else would fall apart. But she had _accomplished_ something, and it felt better than anything she had ever done.

* * *

It had been too late, her head and bones too tired, to seek out the phantom's lair that night. But the following night, she saddled Pastille and headed straight for the opera house. It was almost a straight shot to the northwest, and the route took her up the Boulevard Haussman and around the rear of the Palais to end at the western facade. The Rue Scribe.

She saw the white horse coming from the opposite direction as soon as she rounded the back of the building, yet she knew that its rider would have seen her first. She wondered whether he was returning from the Pont des Arts, or perhaps from the daroga's flat.

They converged at the midpoint of the western facade. "Mademoiselle," Erik greeted her.

"Monsieur."

"Are you desperate enough that you have taken to following me?"

She frowned. "We both know that I could never have done so without your noticing. Though, now that you are here, perhaps you will answer a question for me."

He said nothing, but he sat in wait as she hung her lantern from the saddle and extracted the leather journal and a pen from the satchel she'd brought. "All right," she announced with shaky confidence, tapping the pen against her notes page. "Regarding the night when I fell into the Seine and you walked home to change: You presumably switched to horseback to obtain clothes from my house. Would you say that you traveled at a walk, a trot, a canter, or a gallop?"

He peered down at her curiously. His voice was flat as he answered, "A trot."

"As I suspected," she said, nodding along with his response. "And does the same apply for the ride from my home to the daroga's?"

There was a beat of silence. "Yes."

"Excellent." Clara made a small show of circling the applicable set of calculations in her journal, and then she snapped the book shut and returned it to her satchel. She dismounted and retrieved the lantern, praying that she was in the right place, for she was about to appear incredibly foolish otherwise.

"It seems I have some words to exchange with the daroga," Erik said from atop the white horse.

She looked up at his towering figure, pleading. "Oh, no, please don't be cross with him! I stopped in for tea and, frankly, interrogated him about your accomplishments."

"Did you?" he asked, cocking his head. "How very manipulative." His tone was laced with something almost like respect, and she was not sure she liked it.

"Excuse me," she said, and she left him to explore the western facade of the Palais Garnier.

It was such an exposed facade, and on such an ordinarily busy street, that she could not imagine an entrance that existed in plain sight. But then, Erik was the master of all things trapdoor, or so she'd been told. And then her eyes drifted to the large staircase that rose from the intersection of the Rue Scribe and the Rue Auber; it created a stone wall, some three meters high, that curled around and into the building and formed a sort of alcove, hidden from view, between the curled top of the staircase and the western wall of the opera house.

She looked up; a pair of sculpted angels above a second-story window looked out over the alcove. She walked into the narrow space.

It was easy enough to find the keyhole when she knew it would be there. There was a click and then a muted scraping sound, stone against stone, as a panel of limestone retracted to form a small opening that faced the building—to the east, as Nadir had said. She could not help but grin; she felt more pride in that single moment than she had in the rest of her life combined.

"I must confess," said a quiet voice behind her, "I did not expect you to find it."

Her spine tingled, and she turned her head to one side to regard him. "And now that I have?"

He moved closer, so close that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, beneath where her hair was pulled into a chignon. "You pose a threat to my anonymity, little fawn," Erik said. And then she felt his _fingers_ on the back of her neck, the cool digits of his left hand skating across her skin, tracing the circumference of her throat until they came to rest firmly upon her windpipe. His other hand found the sensitive juncture of waist and right hip, where his fingertips curled into her hipbone to anchor her. "Let us put a safeguard in place, shall we, Clara?"

Despite the threat inherent in the placement of his hands, his touch had a certain tenderness to it. Both aspects rendered her breathless. "I give you my word that I will not tell a soul," she assured him.

He let out a short bark of derisive laughter. "The word of a woman means nothing to me! Not when it can be so easily retracted, even in matters concerning one's death."

She closed her eyes against the fear that threatened to shut down her faculties. "I am sorry for whatever happened to you, Erik," she said, and she felt his fingers twitch against her skin. "But surely you must know by now that I have no desire to talk to anyone, and no one to tell. All I want is to forget."

She felt him exhale onto the downy hairs at the nape of her neck. "We do have that in common," he murmured. "Be that as it may, I warn you that to speak of my existence or my home is to endanger the safety of whomever you tell." He released her, adding, "I can only assume that you assign more value to the lives of others than you do your own."

She nodded. "Of course."

"How noble." He gestured to the opening in the staircase wall. "Come, then. Let us commence our first lesson."

She peered inside but could see nothing but darkness. "Are we going into the opera house, then?" she asked hesitantly.

He smiled, but it was not a friendly smile. "No, my dear. We are going underground."


	10. An Education

Despite all of her detective work, Clara would never have guessed that Erik's home was underground. The absurdity of it, combined with the darkness of the passageway and the lingering feel of his fingers against her throat, made her question what she had been about to do: follow a potentially dangerous man into his home. Alone.

Was she _insane_?

She looked at Erik. He was now leaning slightly against the stone wall, the second-most relaxed she had ever seen him, as though his self-assurance increased the closer he got to his domain. When their eyes met, he languidly crossed his arms against his chest. "Lost our nerve, have we?"

Still weighing her options, she could not form a reply. He took advantage of the opening and stepped forward, now stretching to his full height to tower over her. "Go home, little fawn," he said, his voice rough around the edges. "Return to your safe complacency, and forget about this. Forget about Erik!"

She studied him then, considering what might drive a man to live underground, to come out only at night, to drive others away. To want his own life to end.

Left to his own devices, he would be the genius that time forgot. The creator that Paris never knew. Only Nadir stood between Erik and obscurity, she surmised, and that was an awfully large burden for a single, aging daroga to bear.

Without a word, she stepped forward and squeezed through the opening. The hard limestone on either side crushed her skirts and bustle against her. With the lantern-light she could make out a dank stone passageway that curved and disappeared as quickly as it began, leaving her with no preview of the trek to come.

Erik slid in after her, and the scraping sound returned as the stone panel shifted back into place, shutting them in. The space was narrow, and when he turned to face her, she found herself staring into his chest. She remembered the feel of his protruding ribs beneath her fingertips, but his clothes hid them well.

"How you surprise me with these strange little bouts of courage," he murmured.

Feeling bold, she replied, "Not so fawn-like after all?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I would not go that far." He reached up and gave the slightest tug on a lock of tawny hair that had escaped her chignon. Before she could even react, he had snatched the lantern from her hand and was headed down the passageway. "Follow me," he instructed, "and watch your step."

The passage remained cramped and dark, and it was confusingly serpentine in its layout. And then they were suddenly on spiral stairs that seemed endless in their descent, so much that she began to feel dizzy. The flights of stairs were occasionally punctuated by a brief walk through additional corridors, and then the two of them would begin winding downward yet again. Had there not been a dank chill in the air, she might have expected to stumble upon the pits of Hell.

She had never been claustrophobic or afraid of the dark before, but now she considered that perhaps she ought to be. How far would she have made it had Erik not been present to guide her?

In one passageway, something fist-sized scuttled across the ground. Clara let out a small shriek of panic and grasped the first thing she found: Erik's cloak. He paused for a fleeting moment. Despite her embarrassment, she held fast. And then he was on his way again, evidently willing to overlook her cowardice for the time being.

Finally they kept to a straight course, Clara's fingers still gripping the edge of the cloak in front of her. The moisture in the air grew heavier, but the darkness seemed to be shifting, dissipating, replaced by a faint blue luminescence. Erik halted, and she nearly ran into him.

Now she did release his cloak, and as she stepped up to his side she emitted a small gasp. Before them lay an underground lake, its waters stretching back into shadow until she could see no more. On the shore nearby was small boat moored to an iron ring, and this was where Erik headed next. She followed obediently. Once again she felt as though she had stepped into a dark fairytale—something reminiscent of Beowulf this time, perhaps.

Once Erik had helped her into the vessel's narrow bow, he maneuvered himself closer to the stern and took up the fixed oars. The boat and its occupants were propelled across the lake and through the blueish light, his strokes swift and sure. The only sound was the tranquil splash of oar cutting through water.

They faced each other but did not speak. It was not that she did not wish to know more about her surroundings—quite the contrary—but she knew that Erik was a man of few words, and she felt at ease in her faith that more would be revealed to her in time. Meanwhile, his amber eyes smoldered in the faint light, their gaze flicking between her and the path ahead, but without any of their previous hostility.

At last the boat scraped onto the opposing shore, and he once more steadied her with sinuous fingers as she transitioned from water to land. She was so preoccupied with not stumbling over her own two feet that she did not realize what lay ahead of her until she was at its threshold: a real, honest-to-goodness house. Here, in the bowels of the earth.

They had entered a drawing-room of sorts, laden with furniture and wall-hangings and candles and carpet, as well as a solitary piano. It looked like any other drawing-room in Paris might...except for the flowers.

They were everywhere. In myriad vases and baskets, on every surface except those meant to be sat upon. And they were dead.

Each bouquet was withered and brown, looking as though it would disintegrate under her touch. It was a veritable floral graveyard. And among the flower-skeletons, a ghost of a man.

He was watching her, perhaps waiting for her reaction, and it occurred to her that she must look, to him, as out of place as she felt: pink-skinned and wide-eyed, brimming with fresh-faced youth, her breath still weighted with exertion and exhilaration. Life among death.

"I apologize for the state of the room," he said, shattering the tense silence. "I have not had a visitor in...some time."

"Not even Nadir?"

"Not even the daroga."

Clara pulled off her satchel and set it on the floor near the entrance. "How long has it been?"

"Just over a year."

Erik helped her out of her cloak, hanging it up with his own cloak and hat, and then he gestured to the piano across the room. "Shall we?"

Oh. Oh! Did he intend to give her a piano lesson, then? Her stomach flipped. She had learned the instrument only out of obligation, not passion, and her skills had never been a particular source of pride. In fact, she avoided playing outside her home at all costs. "I am afraid that I will disappoint you with my proficiency, monsieur," she admitted, now regretting having brought up the subject at all.

"I will be the judge of that," he replied, and he stood in wait.

With reluctant obedience, she crossed to the piano and sat on its glossy wooden bench, folding her hands into her lap. "What shall I play, then?"

He had moved to stand next to the instrument, to her right. "Whatever suits you," he said.

She blinked. "What, from memory?"

"Of course. Every pianist ought to have a repertoire of pieces committed to memory."

"Oh." She could feel herself simultaneously shrinking and unraveling as she combed through her mental repertoire. Most of what she could easily recall were simple folk songs, or silly melodies and duets she'd played with Margot. Everything else was suspect, her memory likely to fail her midway through even the most familiar of pieces.

She finally settled on Beethoven's "Six Ecossaises," praying that Erik would not have her play past the first because it was the only one that she had memorized of the six. Her heart thumped as she laid her hands on the keys.

She had not played so much as one note before he snatched up her right hand, pulling it closer for inspection. "Your nails are too long," he said. "You must trim them so that there is no white showing."

He released her, and she curled her fingers inward to study them. Each nail was evenly filed, just barely reaching the end of the fingertip. She would not have considered them long under any other circumstance. "Yes, monsieur," she murmured. She flexed her fingers, found her place on the keys, and began to play.

She got through eight bars before Erik raised a hand to cut her off. "Enough for now," he said. His expression was inscrutable. "Who taught you to play?"

"Monsieur Bechard," she replied. "Why? Do you know him?"

"No," Erik replied, "but he ought be dragged out into the street and summarily shot."

She flinched. "Was it truly that bad?"

There was a pause, and then he emitted a long exhalation through his nose. "You can read music, at least. And though your flexibility suffers from underuse, there is potential there. Your form, however, is disgraceful."

Clara's cheeks burned. "I cannot say that I ever took to the instrument well. Margot was always the more gifted musician."

"That makes little difference if she, too, was instructed by a baboon. Any instructor worth his salt would have stressed proper technique from the beginning." When she balked at the insult, he gave her a terse nod and added, "You're right; it's too unkind a comparison. Baboons are actually quite clever. Wait here a moment."

He walked over to an upholstered loveseat and plucked, from one of its cushions, a beautiful violin and its bow. The violin he set atop the piano, but the bow he kept in his hand. "Play again," he said. "We must first address those lazy wrists of yours. I do not want to see them dip below the keys, let alone touch the keyslip as yours seem wont to do."

Clara bit her lip. "Yes, monsieur."

She played. Once again, she managed to get through only eight bars, this time halted when Erik swiftly raised the violin bow to strike the undersides of her wrists. He was gentle, and it did not hurt, but she flinched all the same, the heat in her cheeks rising even more.

"Keep going," he said, but she had forgotten her place and had to start over. Ten bars this time, and then the slap of the bow again. She corrected her wrists. Twelve bars: another slap. And then, near the end: "You are overcompensating now. Keep your wrists supple, not stiff."

She fought back tears of frustration now, wondering whether her humiliation would know no bounds. When she went to pick up where she'd left off, she once again found that she could not recall her place in the piece.

"Is there a problem, mademoiselle?" he asked, his tone almost derisive.

She swallowed the sob that had been threatening to break loose. "I apologize, monsieur. I must admit that I am quite nervous."

"Whatever for?"

"I do not fare well with performances." Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat with palpable awkwardness. "Or critique."

He stared at her as though she had just confessed to having a second head, and suddenly it was all too much. "Please," she implored, "if I could just have some music to rely on, I would be more able to focus on my playing."

He frowned. "Fine. I will return shortly." He disappeared into a hallway, and when he came back a few minutes later it was with several pages of yellowed sheet music that he set before her. "You are lucky I found this," he said, and she saw that it was, in fact, "Six Ecossaises."

This time she was able to get through the entire first ecossaise without interruption or abuse. She might have felt relief at the end had she not looked up at Erik, who appeared to be debating which critique to deliver first.

"The next time you play," he said, "I would like you to drop your fingers rigidly, separate from the rest of your hand." He reached out to play the same melody, an octave higher, as a demonstration. "Think of each descent as an apple falling from a tree: the apple drops, but it does not take the whole branch with it." He ran through the notes once more, exaggerating the movement of his fingers as they struck the keys, and then he pulled his hand away to gesture toward the edge of the bench. "May I?"

"Of course," she said, a breath too fast. She moved over.

He sat to her right, their sides brushing against each other. "Let me see your arm," he demanded, but his voice had softened. Hesitantly, she held out her right limb, and he gripped the underside of her forearm with bony fingers. His other hand came to rest on top of her forearm, its fingers poised to play as though she was the instrument.

"With opera," he said, "we are used to principal roles, those whose melodies soar above all others on stage." He began to "play" the Beethoven melody on her arm, at approximately half its tempo; her heartbeat doubled in speed by contrast. "But with the piano," he continued, "we do not give preferential treatment; every note or chord must have its moment in the limelight. Do you feel how distinct each one is?"

"Yes," she whispered, fixated on the dexterous movements of his fingers. And she did feel it; each strike of a finger against her arm was solid and deliberate, demanding attention only as long as needed before deferring to the next note.

When he finally stopped, Clara looked up at him for further guidance. His eyes regarded her with sober patience, and she realized what a gift this was, to have the undivided attention and mentoring of someone so talented. In fact, it hardly seemed fair that he should waste his time on her when there were surely more deserving musicians. She resolved then and there to work at being more thick-skinned, to be able to reap the benefits of this time with him. Any critique that he had leveled at her had not been personal; he was looking past her, seeing nothing but her hands and hearing nothing but her playing.

He was still gripping her right forearm with one hand, she realized, and now he guided it back to the ivory keys. Then he reached over with his own right hand to place his fingers directly on top of hers, curving them to better match her size.

"You are letting some of the notes get lost among the crowd," he said, pushing down on her fingers to again demonstrate the rigid drop that he expected of each one. "That will not do. But if you focus on your form, then each one will sing."

She felt a bit lightheaded, perhaps because she had stopped breathing for a moment. She understood that this was merely an exercise meant to help her play better, but it was still the most intimately that she had ever been touched by a man, and it spurred a range of conflicting emotions within her.

"Are you ready to try the Beethoven again?" he asked, his lips so very close to her ear.

"Yes, monsieur." Her voice was solid now; she _was_ ready. She wanted to come at the piece with everything she had, everything he had taught her in such a short span of time.

"Good." He retracted his arm, his fingers grazing the back of her hand as he pulled away, and then he stood and retreated to the side of the piano once more.

She devoted herself fully to this next run-through, careful to heed all notations and give each note purpose. Erik stopped her only once, to address how she played staccato: "Your fingers ought to spring back from the keys, like a rubber ball." He went so far as to grab a pencil in order to lob one end at the piano keys repeatedly, catching it as it bounced back into his waiting hand. "You see?"

She nodded and continued, imagining rubber apples that rained down from tree limbs, thumping against the ground only to bounce back up into the air.

Though Erik continued to call out reminders—"Supple wrists!"—there were no further interruptions, and by the end of the ecossaise, he was nodding. "Better," he said. "Now, how often do you practice?"

She shrugged. "Lately, not at all. At my best, maybe half an hour a day."

"I expect an hour a day now: five minutes of scales and arpeggios, forty-five minutes of your assigned piece, ten of whatever else you choose. Any more than that would likely be unproductive. But when you do practice, be mindful. Pay attention to every note, every crescendo, every articulation. Play _deliberately_."

She prayed that the desperate hope she felt was not so evident in her voice when she asked, "You will give me another lesson, then?"

For perhaps the first time ever, he did not seem able to meet her gaze. "Is that what you want?"

"Very much."

And then he was extending a hand to pull her up from the bench, every inch of him emanating that characteristic self-assurance of his. "We shall convene again next Tuesday night, then. I will meet you at your coach house at twelve-thirty; you should not be riding unaccompanied." As he guided her through the drawing-room and out to the boat, stopping to let her pick up her satchel, he added, "The flowers will not be here when you return."

"Perhaps you ought to consider fresh ones," she suggested teasingly.

He nodded in consideration as he helped her back into the dinghy. "It has stuck with me, the tale of your sister's irritation at her suitors refusing to learn her favorite flower." He pushed the boat off the shore and hopped in, all bony limbs and knees and elbows at the oars. "You never did say yours."

She smiled lightly. "Perhaps it is my turn to withhold information, monsieur. If you correctly guess my favorite flower, I just might let you bait me with another ridiculous riddle."

Erik leaned back to deliver a powerful stroke of the oars, and when he moved forward again, his eyes flickered with delight. "I accept your challenge," he said.

Clara settled back in the boat and tried hard to hide the satisfaction she felt in that moment. She traveled across the lake content with the knowledge that even though she would emerge from the secret passage to find the world just as she had left it, _everything_ would be different.


	11. Sutures

In the three days following her first lesson with Erik, Clara practiced for exactly one hour each day, as prescribed. She did not mind, as she so often had between lessons with M. Bechard; Erik had injected new meaning into the idea of rehearsal, propelling it past a mindless run-through of notes. Now, the sheet music felt like a map to the composer's intent that she must decipher. She would often work on a single measure for several minutes at a time, picking apart the phrases and chords, dusting off and examining each note before putting it back on the staff with the others.

"Clara, love," Céleste called from across the drawing-room on Friday afternoon. "It's not that I don't adore hearing you at the piano again, but must you really play the same tune repeatedly?"

"Yes," Clara replied. "I aim to master it."

Her aunt sighed. "You might have at least chosen something prettier."

The heavy double doors to the room swung open then. In walked Henri Toussaint, looking as sharp and scholarly as ever in a blue-and-gold brocade waistcoat, the chain of his grandfather's pocket-watch dangling from one pocket. One needed only a glimpse of his face, however, to catch sight of the ever-darkening circles under his eyes. Recently, he had developed the habit of removing his spectacles to rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

"Father!" Clara cried, standing from the piano. She had hardly seen him this week. Or the last.

"And how are my favorite ladies today?" he asked, giving them a tired smile.

"We are well," Céleste said. "Your daughter has become _most_ invested in her music as of late. What brings you home so early, dear brother?"

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark wool trousers, looking everywhere but their faces as he said, "I wanted to let you know that I have invited a friend to dinner. M. Isaac Verne." He took out a handkerchief and patted his brow—for what reason, Clara could not fathom. "Rather close in age to you, actually, Clara," he added.

Ah. There it was.

Her aunt's smile faltered. "Henri, are you certain that is appropriate, given the circumstances?"

"Mourning custom allows me simple dinners with friends in my own home, Céleste." Henri's voice had a steely edge to it, and the tension between the siblings grew palpable.

"Clara," Céleste said, "would you be so kind as to give us a moment? Your father and I have a few matters to catch up on."

"Of course, auntie." She obliged, taking the sheet music with her so that she might study it in her room. But once the drawing-room doors closed behind her, she had an even better idea. She faked losing her grip on the music, and the sheets fluttered onto the parquet outside the room. She knelt to collect the pages at a glacial pace, satisfied with her cover should anyone notice her hovering by the door as she eavesdropped.

"I am well aware of what custom does and does not allow," Aunt Céleste was saying, "but do not pretend that you have no ulterior motive in inviting a young bachelor to supper. And in that case, I find it quite objectionable on your daughter's behalf. She just lost her sister, Henri!"

"And I have just lost my other daughter!" he exclaimed, his voice fracturing on the last word. There was a long, heavy silence.

"Dearest sister," he said on a sigh. His voice was softer now. "I understand your concern. But please know that I, too, am acting out of concern for Clara. If Margot's passing has taught me anything, it is the utter unpredictability of life and death. I want Clara to have _security_ , Céleste, and as much as possible. Who is to say what the future holds for me, or for her, or even for this country?"

There was a beat of silence again, and Clara knew that her aunt was thinking back to the Siege of Paris. "Well," she said, "I suppose that a dinner is hardly an engagement. It takes time to build these relationships, after all. Very well, Henri, I defer to your judgment."

Clara plucked the last page of music up off the floor and headed for her room. She did not need to hear anything more.

* * *

As expected, the dinner was awkward. Isaac Verne was congenial and polite—with a rather nice smile, she was reluctant to admit—but her thoughts remained with another man. Several men, really, all bundled into one: matador, ghost, architect, musician, teacher.

She wondered whether M. Verne thought this dinner appropriate in light of her family's recent loss. She was sorely tempted to bring up her deceased twin sister at every opportunity, but it was morbid and besides, she had never _not_ been anything but polite around company. That politeness, combined with her unquestioning obedience, had been perhaps the only thing she'd ever heard her father praise about her. Admittedly, it was likely with the hope that such praise would inspire Margot to hold her tongue. (It did not.)

Instead she smiled and nodded, offering perfunctory comments about the weather and the soup and the loveliness of the Tuileries this time of year.

After dinner they retired to the drawing-room, where Clara got the nearest she'd ever been to strangling her aunt when Céleste insisted that M. Verne hear Clara play. "Perhaps the piece you have been so diligently practicing this week?" she suggested to her niece.

 _Unacceptable_ , she wanted to say. In its unhewn state, that piece was meant for no man's ears but Erik's.

M. Verne turned to Clara, his eyebrows raised with polite and likely forced curiosity, and she responded with an equally polite and forced smile. "Of course, Aunt Céleste."

A maid was called to fetch the music from her room, and then she played. It was meant to be a lively piece, but for her it fell flat, and she had to imagine that it sounded lackluster to the others as well. M. Verne still thanked her for the performance after, while she tried not to cry.

* * *

Her journey to the Opera late that night was unplanned, frantic, emotional. She had sobbed into Pastille's neck and mane before they even set off.

She managed to traverse the long series of underground passages and staircases on her own, clutching the lantern handle so tightly that her hand began to hurt. It was when she reached the lake that she realized the flaw in her attempted visit: there was no boat on shore. It was moored, presumably, on the other side of the lake. With him.

"Erik?" she called out, hoping that the water would carry her voice. She was met with silence. She called his name a few more times, with no success, and then she finally gave up and sank to the ground, arms hugging her knees. At least it was peaceful here, she consoled herself. It was better than stewing in her room. She closed her eyes.

Five minutes into her solitude, she heard the approach of a gentle, rhythmic splashing, punctuated by the occasional hollow _thunk_ of oar striking hull. She stood and brushed off her dress as the sounds drew nearer. First the outline of the boat came into focus under the blueish light, and then the outline of the man. He brought the boat practically to her feet before he stopped and stood, extending his hand.

"Thank you," she said as she stepped into the bow. _Thank you for coming_ , was what she meant. _Thank you for not questioning_.

And then Erik cast off in the opposite direction, as unreadable and silent as always.

At some point, Clara could not help but try to break the silence. "It's awfully difficult to visit you when there is a lake in front of your door," she said, half jokingly.

"That _was_ the idea."

She truly looked at him then, eyes scanning the edges of his black cloth mask for anything that might give away what lay beneath it. He stared back, unruffled, as though he both knew and expected what she sought. "A mask is only a temporary barrier," he said. He rowed with languid strokes, no apparent urgency to return home. "It vexes people to have visual information so flagrantly withheld from them. They grow impatient. Angry."

"And violent," Clara breathed, suddenly understanding.

"Quite."

"And if they _are_ granted that visual access…?"

"Then the fear sets in," he finished. He continued to row impassively. "A different means to the same end."

He was not soliciting pity, she knew, and she struggled with her response. In truth, she had a foolish, instinctive urge to wrap her arms around that sharp rib cage, to embrace and protect and assure him.

"Have you never felt safety, then?" The question was almost a whisper when she voiced it.

The answer came in the form of his lips, set in a firm line, and in his golden eyes, which refused to meet her blue ones. The boat eased up on shore; he got out quickly, still avoiding her gaze as he helped her onto land and strode into the house.

Clara followed obligingly, but once inside, she tugged on the black wool sleeve of his tailcoat. "You are safe with me, Erik," she said when she had his attention.

"How charming of you to believe that." He swept the dark cloak from his shoulders and hung it on the hat-stand; his hat joined it soon after. "Especially since I cannot say the same in reverse."

She moved a few paces to stand in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "You saved my _life_ ," she reminded him. "You brought me to Nadir. You escorted me to the cemetery, and you continue escorting me home. Say what you will, monsieur, but I do not believe you for a second."

She was so close to him now that she could hear the air escaping his nostrils. He stared down at her and cocked his head. She had seen him do this before, she realized, and now she suspected that it was meant to intimidate—rather effectively, she might add. He drew even nearer, and there was a rustle of fabric as his leg displaced her skirts.

"My, my," he breathed into her ear, his voice low and sultry. "Has the little fawn learned to stand on her own?"

Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. He chuckled without mirth. "As I thought."

She could not admit out loud that it was hardly fear of him that had kept her in check, but rather fear of her response to him: the thrill of forbidden longing that had bubbled up so fervently and unexpectedly in her breast. Instead, she pulled away, feigning a sudden interest in the drawing-room.

True to his word, Erik had done away with the dead flowers. The space was clean, practically sparkling, and she once again marveled that such refinement should exist within the clammy entrails of the earth.

Her stomach growled softly, and she blushed at her body's ostentatious betrayal. From the upward shift in Erik's mask she could guess that he was raising an eyebrow or two. "Allow me to fetch you something to eat," he said, and without waiting for a response he crossed over to an opening into an adjacent dining room.

In the doorway, however, he stopped, hesitated, and turned back around. "Would you care to assist me, mademoiselle?"

Clara blinked. Not once could she recall having done anything of the sort. Why should she, when that was what the servants were paid to do? It had not occurred to her how much effort must be required to maintain a household without hired help. Had she placed an unnecessary burden on Nadir, too?

"Of course," she said, with a squeak in her voice that made her cringe. She followed Erik across the dining room and through another door that led to a small kitchen.

She had expected a failsafe task—setting out napkins, perhaps—and tried to hide her discomfort when he handed her a wooden cutting board with a baguette and a long, serrated knife, identifying an empty countertop where she could work.

Clara positioned the loaf of bread on the cutting board and picked up the knife. She had never seen a kitchen knife so long; it looked almost like a thin saw, its wide teeth glinting in the kitchen lamplight. She swallowed.

No. She could do this. She knew how to _cut food_ , for goodness' sake; she did it every day. This was merely a larger knife and a larger...food.

She anchored the bread under her left hand and sawed through it with her right until a thick slice separated from the loaf. She had angled the knife too much, creating a steep grade on the bread, but she could work with that. She trimmed it until it was even and returned to sectioning the bread.

The second attempt was a straight slice through the baguette, which she proudly set on a plate that Erik had handed her. Her third attempt, though, was a straight slice through the tip of her index finger.

She instantly felt the sharp separation of skin, as though it was being ripped apart in slow motion, and she dropped the knife on the countertop with a loud clatter. Warm blood seeped out of the gash—more blood than should have been allowed for a finger, she thought, as she cradled the digit in her other hand and braced herself against the pain.

"Come here, you ridiculous girl." Erik grabbed her by the upper arms and steered her over to the sink, where he reached out and plunged her bloodied hands into a basin. The water inside clouded and turned rust-colored. When he pulled her hands out again, he had ready a clean white cloth that he used to pat her skin dry before wrapping the injured finger.

"Hold this tightly to stanch the bleeding," he said, placing her uninjured hand over the makeshift bandage. "Go back to the drawing-room, and I will join you once I finish in here."

Clara did as she was told, perching on the edge of the loveseat and trying not to cry. It hurt, yes, but worse than that, she felt like a failure: unable to cut even a loaf of bread without incident.

When Erik came in with a tray of food and drink, the tears had overflowed her eyelids and she was wiping their trails from her cheeks. He set down the tray and sat beside her. "May I see it?" he asked.

She nodded, and he gently unwrapped the cloth. It was soaked in crimson at the site of the wound, but the bleeding had slowed significantly. He cupped the fingers of both his hands beneath her injured forefinger and used his thumbs to examine the cut, manipulating the nearby skin as he examined it. His touch was light, considerate, but the wound burned with pain at this point, and she winced several times.

"This will not heal easily on its own," he finally remarked. "It is deep, and not a clean cut. The serrated edge essentially tore the flesh apart." He looked up at her now. "You will need stitches."

Wide-eyed, she looked down at the cut and then back at him. "I've never had them before."

He wrapped the cloth around her finger again. "I can do them, if you want, or you can wait and summon a doctor in the morning."

"I would rather it be you," she said, though she could not imagine why.

He nodded. "I will be back with supplies. In the meantime"—and here he handed her a plate from the tray—"you must eat."

She shook her head. "I cannot possibly."

"You _must_ ," he repeated. "Your body is hungry, and you have lost blood. I do not want you fainting when I put in sutures."

"I have never fainted before," she informed him, sounding perhaps a bit too haughty. He set his mouth in a firm line. She sighed, stacked a piece of cheese atop a slice of bread, and began to chew. Seemingly satisfied, he left her in search of supplies.

When Erik returned it was with another tray, which he set on the loveseat between them as he sat. This one bore, among other things, a tumbler and two crystal decanters full of liquid: one amber and one clear. He filled the tumbler partway with the amber liquid, and the sharp smell of alcohol infiltrated her nose. "Brandy," he said, handing her the glass. "It will ease the pain. Start drinking it now."

Clara took the tumbler but eyed its contents warily. She had tried brandy only once, several years prior, and had not found it to her liking.

"Best to drink it fast," Erik said, and she detected a bit of amusement in his voice. "Excuse me while I scrub my hands."

She waited for him to leave the room before she took a sip, which she promptly spat back into the glass. It tasted like she imagined a campfire might: woody, subtly sweet, but as though it would incinerate her insides, starting with her nostrils and throat. There would be no easy way about this, then. Using the thumb and middle finger of her injured hand, she pinched her nose and gulped down every last drop.

Even after she swallowed, she could feel the brandy blazing a trail down her esophagus, the warmth gradually spreading across her body and out to her skin. It was not a bad feeling, really.

Erik paused when he saw the empty glass on his return. "Impressive," he said, and he filled it again, adding, "Just in case" when she groaned.

Now he removed everything from the supply tray to cover it with a towel that he soaked in the contents of the clear decanter—more alcohol, by the smell of it—and then he began splashing the alcohol onto various other objects: scissors, forceps, a small sewing needle. There was a thin coil of something that looked like fishing wire, and she asked about it.

"Catgut," he replied. "It will dissolve easily, over time. Regular thread would fuse to your skin."

"Catgut," she repeated. "That's used for instrument strings, right?"

He nodded, pausing a beat before he added, "Among other things." She wanted to question him further, but he then began to thread the catgut through the needle, and a shock of panic coursed through her. He moved a lamp closer for better lighting. She drank more brandy.

When everything was ready, Erik unwrapped her finger and cleaned the cut with an alcohol-soaked cloth, which made her gasp in pain. She took another gulp of liquor.

"Hold this," Erik said, forcing a bundled rag into her uninjured hand, "and do not let go. For the love of all that is good and holy, do not grab any part of my body while I am driving a needle through your skin."

"Oh, God," she whispered. "I'm scared."

He pinched together the areas of flesh on either side of the wound and held the needle expertly at the tip of the forceps. "I work quickly," he said. He spoke in his usual clipped tone, but she knew that the words were meant for her reassurance. "Three stitches and it will be finished." He turned his face up to her, his voice and demeanor softening as he added, "You can look away, Clara."

She stared at him then, the musician in his sharp black tailcoat and cravat, poised with all the confidence of a surgeon—and she decided that she _wanted_ to watch him work. "Go on," she said breathlessly. "I'm ready."

She cried out when he punctured the first swath of skin. Tears immediately pricked her eyes. With her other hand, she gripped the bundled rag so tightly that her knuckles went white. The sight of the needle entering her skin, now seeping with blood, threatened to make her vomit. She began to reconsider her choice.

"Brave little fawn," Erik murmured, and then she was all in.

Though she continued to grit her teeth, Clara began to get used to the sharp invasion of the needle, the taut pull of the catgut. Moreover, she reveled in the sight of those long, spidery fingers and the steady precision with which they manipulated her skin, maneuvered the forceps and needle.

The brandy began to loosen her tongue. "You must think me terribly inept in all things," she said. He did not respond, clearly focused on suturing her finger, but she could not seem to contain the rush of words that wanted to spill over her lips. "Do you know, I have not prepared food once in my life? If I were ever left without household staff, I would surely perish." Her sardonic chuckle was interrupted by Erik once more pulling the needle through skin; she gasped and balled her fist around the rag again.

"Unlikely," he demurred, not looking up. "You have already proven your resourcefulness." With a few deft movements of forceps and needle, he tied a knot at the end of the cut and used small scissors to trim the catgut. Then he set to wrapping the wound with a strip of linen, adding, "No doubt that if you were left to your own devices in the kitchen, you would eventually come to learn that you must curl exposed fingers _inward_ when cutting food."

"Ah," she said, suddenly longing for the level of intoxication that nullified embarrassment. "I am beginning to wish that someone had taught me the more practical things in life." She watched Erik as he finished bandaging her finger and began to tidy the supplies, and an idea flitted into her head and slipped off her tongue faster than she could catch and examine it: "Would _you_ teach me some of those things?"

"I have no idea what you could possibly mean."

"Domestic survival skills!" she said. The brandy was rendering her mood enthusiastic while at the same time making her muscles relax, and her tongue was no exception. It felt heavy against her lips as she added, "Teach me how you _do_ things, and then I can help you."

"Is a weekly piano lesson not enough?" he snapped, but she could sense that he was thinking about it. Holding back.

She could hardly hold her head up now. She pulled her legs up beside her and lay her head on the arm of the loveseat, warm and drowsy from the liquor. The pain in her finger had given way to a dull throb. "No, it's not enough," she replied quietly. "Some days I can hardly manage to get out of bed." Her eyes shifted back to his face. "What about you?"

She could see the muscles in his neck and jaw tighten and then relax, as though flexing in contemplation. He exhaled audibly through his nose. "Come on Friday nights," he said. "Perhaps you could be of some use around here."

A languid smile settled onto her face. She may have uttered a response, some admission of gratitude, but her thoughts were fuzzy around the edges and she could not be entirely sure.

She did not remember falling asleep. She woke to the weight of a hand on her shoulder, to a murmured word in her ear: "Clara."

She could not open her eyes, but she knew that she ought to respond, so she made a sort of "nnn" sound at the back of her throat. Good enough.

Clara felt one arm slip under her knees and another under her arms, across her back, and then she was lifted from the loveseat and cradled against a warm torso. It seemed strange, given the ever-present chill in Erik's fingers, that he should give off body heat. But here it was, and she sought it out, nestling her head against the wool of his tailcoat. He walked, and she began to drift off again.

It was only when he lowered her onto something soft and pliant, separating her from his warmth, that she managed to pry her eyelids open. He was draping a blanket over her now. A bed, then? "Thank you," she whispered, and he nodded.

"I will wake you in time to return home," he assured her.

Home. The thought had not once crossed her mind. She hardly even cared about getting back before the household awoke, though that was probably the alcohol talking.

He was headed for the door across the room when she found her voice, thick with sleep and brandy. "Erik," she addressed him; he stopped and turned to face her. "Are we friends?" She paused to pull the blanket around her shoulders and up to her chin. "I would like us to be friends."

He was stock-still for a moment, and then he returned to sit on the edge of the bed, clasping his hands in his lap. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. "I do not think that is a good idea."

"It is likely unavoidable. I am already coming here for lessons, and I rather like you." She smiled muzzily. "Nadir, too. We can form a club."

"Well now." The corners of Erik's mouth twitched. "If there is to be a _club_ , then I shall have to reconsider." And then he was on his feet again. "Sleep well, little fawn. I've no doubt that in a few short hours, you shall either forget or regret everything you've just said."

Would she? She hoped not. She smiled more broadly at his retreating form, and then she let sleep claim her.

* * *

A/N: Let's not judge Clara too harshly; I ran a bread knife through my finger just last month, and it was far from the first time. Sigh.


	12. The Path of Least Resistance

Many years before a fawn and a phantom mingled on a bridge over the River Seine, that very same bridge—the Pont des Arts—was the favorite haunt of a middle-aged street performer called Yanoro, more facetiously known to locals as "the gypsy king." He was there nearly every evening with a chipped wooden footstool, a fiddle, and an upturned hat for collecting spare sous.

The little Toussaint twins had found him fascinating. He had tan and weathered skin, a coal-black mustache as thick and coarse as a shoe-brush, and dark brown eyes that twinkled whenever they came across a child, as though he was letting the youngster in on an important secret. He always wore a red-and-green vest over a white shirt with billowing sleeves, and he tucked his trouser legs into worn leather boots.

But it was his performance that truly held them captivated. The melodies that poured out of his fiddle were lilting and foreign, strange to their ears in all the best ways, encapsulating the romantic allure of a mysterious, nomadic culture that was otherwise inaccessible to them. The faster songs were whirling tempests of dramatic flourish, from foot-stomping jubilation to stomach-churning tension. They boasted a marvelous lack of restraint compared to the rigid orchestral predictability that Clara was used to, the notes coming in behind the beat to create a swinging sort of cadence.

She could recall one particular time when, having finished a song, Yanoro bent down to look Clara and Margot right in the eyes, his own irises full of mischief and amusement. "This next one," he told them, in his gruff and unplaceable Eastern-European accent, "is about a _dancing bear!_ "

The sisters had grinned and exchanged glances of delight. They had watched, riveted, as the man played his fiddle faster than anyone they had ever seen, stomping in wide-legged circles as he did so. It had been easy to imagine a bear on its hind legs, ambling around in a comical attempt at dancing.

When Yanoro played a slow song, though, watching him felt almost intrusive. It was as though he was laying bare every thought, every feeling that he possessed in that small window of time: a pure, raw, introspective ache. It was only in these moments that Clara and Margot saw their aunt's eyes mist over.

This was the kind of hauntingly beautiful melody that Clara woke up to.

For a brief moment, she thought herself back on that bridge as a child, begging her father for coins to drop into Yanoro's hat. When the fog of sleep cleared, she recalled that she was in a bedroom in Erik's home—but still, the music played. She slipped out of bed, still in full dress and shoes, and cracked open the heavy mahogany door.

The light of the gas-lamps was gone, replaced by sparse candlelight that threw the drawing-room into flickering shadow. Erik stood with his back to her, cradling his violin with all the familiarity and tenderness of a lover. He had removed his tailcoat to expose a dark silk waistcoat and starched white shirt, presumably for ease of movement as he rocked the bow back and forth over the belly of the instrument. Each stroke was affectionate, wistful, and deliberate. Each musical phrase ended on a drawn-out note of melancholic longing that threatened to break something inside of her.

When the song ended half a minute later, her eyes were brimming with tears and she could not even say why. Erik dropped his arms to his sides, clutching bow and violin in one hand. Slowly, stiffly, the man of long bone and sinew turned to meet her gaze, his golden irises two small rings of fire in the near-darkness.

"Sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She inelegantly wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I did not mean to intrude."

"On the contrary," he said, "I had hoped to wake you. It will be getting late soon." He extended a hand. Without hesitation she moved to take it, until she saw that it held a handkerchief, seemingly conjured out of thin air.

"Thank you." She took the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "Are you saying that you _intended_ for me to wake up to such heartbreak?"

He shrugged. "The body wants to play what it wants to play. Surely even you have felt that strange pull at times." He moved to sit on the loveseat and set his instrument on the cushion beside him.

She sat in the armchair opposite him, deciding to ignore what certainly felt like a slight. "That music—did you learn it during your time with the gypsies?"

He exhaled a loud hiss of air. "For all the daroga cares about my privacy," he replied, "he may as well publish my detailed biography." He began to flex his fingers and wrists, the joints cracking and popping as he did so. "Yes, I learned the style of music during my time with the Romani. The melody you just heard was improvised, however. How is your finger?"

Her thoughts stumbled and lagged behind as they tried to follow him. Had he just told her that that piece of beautiful mourning, the one that had threatened to crack her down the middle like an egg, had simply flowed from his brain to his extremities without preamble?

"My finger is quite sore," she reported. "I may not be able to practice before our next piano lesson."

"About that." He sat up more rigidly now. "I have decided that we shall not proceed with any such lessons." He cast her a hard glare, as though daring her to challenge him. She wondered at the change in his demeanor from earlier, when he had been all soft voice and capable hands. Did he think she'd forgotten the deliciously feather-soft conversation that had transpired between them on the bed?

"Why, Erik?" she asked, trying not to sound desperate. "I meant what I said earlier, about wanting us to be friends."

His jaw hardened, and he replied, "That is exactly why." He stood and walked over to the hat-stand. "It is for your own good, mademoiselle." He lifted her cloak from the stand, beckoning for her to come to him.

Clara stood, frowning, and approached slowly. "How _tired_ I am of everybody else deciding what is best for me, what would make me content," she said. He moved to wrap the cloak around her shoulders, and she stepped back with a sharp " _No!_ " that surprised them both. He tensed, and she held up her hands in placation, adding, "Please; I am only trying to understand." He remained motionless with her cloak suspended from his hands, as though in disbelief that she should resist him.

"We have already established that you hardly pose a threat to me," she continued. "Therefore, I think…" She hesitated. "I think that you are lying." She saw his irises flare and added, "If not to me, then to yourself. Why are you trying to frighten me away, Erik?"

That was not, perhaps, the best approach. "Your insolence tests Erik's patience!" he snapped. "He has punished men for far less, mademoiselle!"

She faltered, thrown off by his slip into third-person narration. She had heard it once before, she realized, and it had also been in tandem with his rising temper. It was so very _curious_ , and she wanted to mull it over, to study it some more, but the timing was ill-suited.

While she considered her response, he had moved to the end table containing the supplies for her sutures and had tossed her cloak aside, over the back of the loveseat. He picked up the thin coil of catgut and began to roll the wire between thumb and forefinger. "A curious thing, catgut," he said; his sudden calmness unnerved her. "Quite a marvel that a material able to elicit such pleasure through music should also be so effective in taking a life."

His words stole the breath from her lungs. She watched, spellbound, as he set down the coil and produced from seemingly _nowhere_ another length of catgut, this one with a thin metal bar attached to either end. He held it up for her to see, snapping it taut a few times to demonstrate its strength. "I call it the Punjab lasso," he told her. "It is practically invisible to an unsuspecting victim."

He approached her now, slowly enough that she could have easily moved away, but she remained rooted to the spot. Her limbs were frozen as he circled behind her and, with the lightest of touches, swept her hair from the side of her neck.

"It goes around the throat like this," he said as he looped the catgut over her head and across her throat. "Then it is twisted"—she felt the tension of the wire as the ends joined at the back of her neck—"and pulled taut, like a garrote." He tugged just enough for her to feel the pressure against her windpipe: a preview of what it would be like to become his next victim. His lips moved in close to murmur, "Do you see, little fawn, how easily I could snatch your life away?"

"But you haven't," she whispered. It was a perilous leap of faith, that reply: practically an invitation to kill her, should her instincts prove incorrect.

"Not yet, no." His voice was hard. He released the lasso and pocketed it, moving back to the loveseat to retrieve her cloak. "But I am very much an agent of death."

"This coming from a man who actively deters people from taking their own lives."

Without warning, he swept the contents of the end table onto the floor. She moved backward against the wall, startled, as the room echoed with the sounds of clanking metal and shattering glass. "I was an assassin for the shah of Persia!" he growled as he stalked toward her. He stopped within arm's reach, bending forward to hiss into her face. "I have kidnapped and held captive a girl no older than you, in this very house!" The heat of his gaze pinned her to the cold stone behind her. His eyes seemed larger somehow, more vibrant than she had ever seen, and his hands trembled.

"What happened to her?" Clara asked on an outward breath, uncertain she wanted to know the answer.

Erik straightened. He did not look away, but his eyes lost their focus, as though he was watching a memory play out before him. "She is gone," he said coldly. "Gone and married to a mustachioed fop of a man, at _my_ behest, and with the gold ring _I_ gave her! All I asked in return was that she come back to bury me with that ring." Here his voice faltered, dipping into almost a whisper. "I was ready to _die_ of love for her."

His confession stunned her, shaking her foundation more than anything he had thus far said or done. Nadir's words came back to haunt her with startling clarity: that Erik was only a man; that this was both his saving grace and his downfall. She had been too swept up in dark fairy tales and Egyptian myths to consider how truly flawed and troubled he likely was.

She felt a pang of something else, too, that could only be described as envy. It was not that she should want a man to die of love for her, by any means...but oh, what must it be like to inspire such passion?

He peered down at her, apparently having returned to the present, and his voice was ominously low and flat. "And what do you suppose she did, mademoiselle?"

She had a guess, but she sensed that she was not meant to speak and shook her head to feign ignorance instead.

"She sent it _back_!" he hissed. "To the daroga, of course, believing he would keep it until my imminent death—but he cannot withhold secrets from me." He smacked his palm against the wall beside her. "What a fickle lot you women are!"

All along, Clara had not known what to make of this torrent of anger. It was no longer born of concern for her own welfare, of that she was certain. There was a heightened, almost frantic awareness to his actions that she had not seen from him before, except…

Except when he had thought she was reaching for his mask, she now realized. When he had felt threatened.

She glanced up at him now, wrapping his angry golden eyes in the soft gaze of her own cornflower blue ones. "Oh, Erik," she breathed. "I am so sorry."

His mouth parted in shock, and he looked as though he might weep. "Why do you _stay_?" he moaned. "I confess my worst sins to you, confess to _murder_ , and still you remain! Why? Why do you toy so rashly with your own mortality?"

"Because otherwise I have nothing!" she cried. The outburst stunned both of them, but it unleashed something inside of her, something that she had been pushing down for weeks, and she could no longer contain it. "Otherwise I am left with the ache of a phantom limb, a phantom _heart_ , while my family pawns me off on an unsuspecting suitor who will never understand or challenge me the way"—and here she swallowed, struggling to push out the words—"the way you have."

She was crying now, holding back the wails that wanted to escape her throat but unable to stop the salt tears that poured over her cheekbones. "So yes, I think that I might rather die than go on like that, Erik," she told him, her voice choking. "I _wanted_ to jump into the river. I wanted to, but I could not. Not yet. And I want to believe that it was because there was some hope of salvation."

Without even waiting for a response, she collapsed onto the loveseat and wept into his handkerchief.

Erik's gaze did not follow her, but rather stayed trained on the spot that she had just occupied. She saw his shoulders slump as the anger gradually dissipated from his body. Finally, he walked over to sit next to her, hunching over to rest his elbows on those knees that stuck out at such odd angles. For a long time he stared straight ahead, hands clasped together, while her crying abated.

"You are a foolish girl," he said quietly, "to hang all of your hopes on a broken man." He cast a sidelong glance at her.

"And you overcomplicate things," she murmured. "Can we not just _exist_ together, with no expectations, for a few days a week? As you do with Nadir?"

He looked at her pointedly. "Surely I do not need to enumerate the ways in which you differ from the daroga."

She felt her cheeks color but ignored his quip. "What you have with him...it's...special," she concluded. "I do not understand it, not yet, but it seems that there is a balance in your personalities, and it works. It has meaning. Am I wrong?" He did not respond, which she took to indicate silent agreement. "I think that you and I have that same kind of balance," she concluded.

"Do not try to frame this as a mutually beneficial arrangement," he chastised her, "when you have just confessed to using me."

"Fine, it is selfishness. But you, monsieur, have been using me for your own preoccupation since day one! How selfish of _you_ to draw me in for your own needs and then try to push me away!"

"I have already admitted as much! Why do you insist on rehashing old topics?"

"Because _you_ insist on this constant reversal of progress!" He tensed up next to her, and she sighed. "I understand that you are trying to protect yourself, Erik, but our destinies are intertwined now. Why else would we keep meeting? Those are _your_ flowers on my sister's grave, the key to _your_ home in my possession."

"My breath in your lungs," he murmured in assent. As soon as the words left his mouth, however, he stiffened as though seized by a cold panic.

Her body stilled as well. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing of consequence."

" _Erik_."

He turned slightly to face her, his eyes dark and narrow. "You were not breathing when I pulled you out of the Seine," he said. There was an almost unbearable pause. "I was forced to cut off your corset and resuscitate you."

Her lips parted wordlessly.

He had laid mouth and hands on her person. His lips had touched _her lips_. Her fingertips moved of their own accord, ghosting along her bottom lip as though in search of the evidence. His eyes widened at the gesture, and she quickly pulled down her hand.

"All I am saying," she said, ignoring the flush in her cheeks, "is that, quite often, the path of least resistance is the best one."

He was silent for a long moment. "Well," he finally replied, "I shall to have to brush up on my first aid and rescue skills."

Relief washed over her, she released one long exhale of soft laughter.

He stood and retrieved her cloak from the back of the loveseat, announcing, "We really must go," but with all of his earlier urgency having dissolved. He helped her slip on the garment and retrieved his own cloak and hat, and they made for the rowboat outside.

Erik offered his hand to help her in once more, but as she made for her usual place in the bow, he pulled her back. "Sit here," he said, gesturing to the bench seat near the oars. "This will be your first lesson." And then he taught her how to row a boat.

It was not too difficult, she was pleased to find, though she suspected her arms would be sore the next day.

As they neared the opposite shore of the lake, he addressed their upcoming Tuesday lesson. "Since you cannot play," he determined, "we must make a substitution. Perhaps I ought to invite the daroga over for a late supper."

"Oh, fun!" she replied.

"A supper that you shall prepare," he added, and her enthusiasm faltered. "I will assist you, of course. It is high time I asked the daroga back to my home. And then he can see for himself that I have not imprisoned you in the torture chamber."

Clara, who had become preoccupied with beaching the vessel, broke her concentration to look at him. "I'm sorry, in the what?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing. Go just a little farther up the bank—you'll need to put your back into it. Tell me, do you feel confident that you can do this again?"

She maneuvered the boat as he had instructed. "Well, yes, I suppose. But did you say something about a tor—"

"Good. I will see to it that there is a second boat available for you to row to my home on your own, should the need ever arise." He stood and helped her onto shore, narrowly rescuing the edge of her cloak from a dip in the lake, and then he gave her the lantern and made her lead the way up and out to the Rue Scribe. She grumbled her displeasure, but her spirits soared.

* * *

Clara arrived home flushed and tired and happy—happy for the first time, she realized, since her sister's passing. She was practically floating up the stairs, her mind in a haze of exhaustion and contemplation, when she nearly collided with another body.

It was her maid, carrying a small basket of laundry and looking positively mortified at the near collision. "My sincerest apologies, mademoiselle," she squeaked.

"Oh, Juliette," Clara gasped, a hand flying to her breast as a reflex to still her beating heart. "You merely surprised me. I was not expecting to see anyone. You are...up early."

The girl gave her a wan smile, framed by a small, sharp nose and tufts of dark hair that poked out from under her cap. "I am often up this early," she replied. "The stockings will not mend themselves, after all."

Clara had hardly considered what her maid's day might be like before she woke, and this insight struck her with equal parts guilt and fascination. She suddenly realized that her _own_ unexpected behavior was not accounted for, however, and in a panic she tried to form an excuse.

"I was just...well, I was…" She sighed and decided to come clean—part of the way, at least. "I have not been sleeping well these past few weeks, and I went out for fresh air. If you could just keep this between us—"

"Oh, of _course_ , mademoiselle," Juliette assured her. "In fact, I have often wondered how you can stand to stay cooped up in here so often, what with the mourning restrictions and all." And then she blanched, no doubt realizing that she had spoken out of turn. "Forgive me, mademoiselle; it is not my place." Clara smiled and waved her words away, which seemed to instill a timid confidence in the girl. "Then, if I may offer a suggestion for your future outings?" she added. "The servants' staircase is accessible from the coach house and goes just past your quarters."

Clara grinned. "Whatever would I do without you, Juliette?"

They parted ways, and Clara let herself into her room to change for bed. Her heart was still pounding. She had been so close to being discovered, with only a small stroke of luck keeping her disappearance under wraps. She could not afford for it to happen again.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was super hard to write, for some reason; feedback would be much appreciated. And if you'd like a taste of what Erik's gypsy song might have sounded like, search for and listen to any violin rendition of "Souvenir de Villingen." :)


	13. Dinner Party

Clara knew as soon as she tied the rowboat outside Erik's house that something was amiss.

She had decided to arrive early in anticipation of their cooking lesson, both restless at home and fearing her utter ineptitude in the kitchen. Without a way to alert him on short notice, however, she'd simply had to hope that he was, in fact, there.

She had found a tiny boat waiting for her at the end of the passage from the Rue Scribe; it was, to her delight, a weathered purpley-blue color. At the opposite shore, where she'd moored the vessel as Erik had shown her, and she had been relieved to see his other boat present as well.

Now, as she walked up from the shore with a lantern in hand, there was no light emanating from the house. When she crossed the dark threshold into the drawing-room, the air felt still and empty, devoid of that wondrous, buzzing tension that she felt when Erik was near. But if he had left, she thought, surely he would have taken the boat?

"Erik?" she called out softly. There was no answer, and she began to grow uneasy.

Tentatively, she began to search the house. She first ducked into the doorway to her right, the sparsely furnished bedroom where she had slept a few days prior. It was empty, save for the mahogany bed frame, a marble-topped Louis-Philippe chest of drawers, and a few other small items.

She worked her way through the drawing-room and back into the dining-room, which contained two doorways: one straight back into the kitchen, which she deemed vacant as well, and one off to the right. The latter door was cracked open a finger's width, and though she had no idea what lay behind it, she decided to go in.

The walls of the room were hung in a ghastly black. In the center of the space was a canopy—red brocade, if she had to guess in the dim lantern-light—and beneath it something dark and boxy that she could not quite make out. She crept closer, extending her lantern-bearing arm as much as possible to light the way. When she was close enough to identify the object in question, everything halted: her legs, her breath, her heart.

It was a coffin. And Erik lay inside of it, eyes closed and body limp.

Her mind flashed back to when her sister had lain in an open casket, her lifeless hands folded over her abdomen, the white satin of her bodice only serving to emphasize the absence of life in those fingers. Erik's hands were positioned similarly on his stomach, and he was fully dressed in his sharp black suit and swallow-tailed coat.

Clara could not make sense of the sight. He was dead, surely, but how had he come to be here? Nadir must have been involved, but then why had she not been notified? What had _happened_?

Her lower lip began to tremble and she inched closer to the coffin, needing to touch him, to understand, to feel that he was really and truly gone. Her fingers shook as they moved to press against the pulse point just below his jaw. They met cool, pale skin.

And then a cold, skeletal hand latched onto her wrist. Two eyelids shot open to reveal a blaze of gold. She screamed.

The previously lifeless torso snapped up into a rigid sitting position as though propelled by a spring, its hand maintaining a vice-like grip on her arm. As a reflex, she dropped the lantern and wrenched her arm free, another scream hurtling from her lungs as she fled the room.

She stumbled through the darkness of the house, tripping over furniture, her skirts hindering her already tenuous progress. More than once she fell sprawling to the floor, her palms stinging as they carried the brunt of her momentum. Finally, finally, she could just make out the bluey light of the lake ahead, and she made for the boat.

She was almost to the doorway when she was snatched up by two powerful arms that wrapped themselves around her upper body, pinning her arms to her sides. She screamed once more, and as the arms lifted her off the ground to carry her back into the drawing-room, she started kicking. There was a grunt as her heel made contact with flesh and bone, but the strong arms did not relent.

"Cease this at _once_ , you ridiculous girl!" her skeletal captor ordered. She froze at the sound of that deep and melodious voice: decidedly not, she surmised, the voice of a corpse.

Erik waited until her body slackened, and then he set her down on what felt like the loveseat. She heard the click of his boots across stone, and then the gas-lamps in the room came alight, illuminating a dark and wiry frame now abuzz with life and tension.

He moved to face her, his eyes two hard, glowing pinpoints that seemed to skewer her from within the holes of his black mask. "First you disturb my sleep," he growled, "and then you nearly set my room on fire!" The lantern! She had forgotten about it entirely.

"What," he continued, "is the meaning of all of this?"

She stared at him, open-mouthed, as she processed his words. Then it hit her, all at once: immense relief, embarrassment at her foolishness, the absurdity of the entire situation. She started to laugh, and then she could not stop.

Erik had tilted his head to watch her, and as she continued to chortle, rocking back and forth on the loveseat, the firm line of his mouth tightened with impatience. "Are you quite mad?" he eventually snapped.

That made her laugh even harder, the question of madness coming from a man whom she'd discovered asleep in a casket.

"I am so sorry," she gasped between bouts of mirth. "It's just...I thought you were dead!" She was wiping tears from her eyes now. "Oh, Erik, why on earth were you sleeping in a _coffin_?"

He at least had the common sense to look a bit sheepish as he sat in the armchair across from her. "It is where I rest," he said, "in lieu of a bed. One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity."

"But that makes no sense," she said. "Not if one expects one's soul to be freed from physical constraints after death."

"I do not necessarily share that expectation."

"Still," she said, "you would have an eternity to get used to it, correct? Might as well enjoy the comforts of a bed while you can." She could hardly believe her candor, and neither could he, apparently.

"I do not recall even asking you to come this early, let alone consult on spiritual matters," he snapped. "You should have waited for me to escort you."

"I'm sorry. I was bored and worried that we would not have enough time."

He exhaled through his nostrils in that manner of irritation that she was coming to know so well, and then he rose from his chair. "Let us get on with it, then."

As Clara stood, Erik removed his black tailcoat, set it aside, and neatly rolled back his shirtsleeves until they ended just above his elbow, exposing sharp joints and yellowed skin so pale it was practically translucent. The overall effect was so astoundingly, ruggedly casual that she had to stop herself from staring.

In the kitchen he handed her a starched ivory apron and informed her that they would be making navarin of lamb. She relaxed a little as she tied the apron strings; she'd consumed the meat-and-vegetable stew many times before, and its familiarity was comforting. The idea of throwing a bunch of ingredients into a pot did not seem so intimidating, either. "That sounds good," she said, smiling.

He was ransacking the kitchen now, pulling out cooking implements and containers and vegetables. "And can you guess _why_ I have selected this dish?" he asked.

"Um. Because it's delicious?"

He sighed. " _Think_. Is there a particular time of year when it is served more than others?"

She mulled it over. "In the spring, I suppose? Oh! Because it contains spring vegetables!"

"Correct." Erik handed her a metal sieve and motioned for her to stand by the sink. At his direction, she rinsed spring onions and peas in the sieve while he explained how seasonal produce was the cornerstone of meal preparation: it was fresh, flavorful, and generally cheaper. She had not even considered that a difference in the price of vegetables would matter to someone. And what made endive more or less expensive than fennel, she wondered?

Next she used a coarse, wood-backed brush to scrub potatoes, turnips, and carrots. Then he placed before her a cutting board and a thick-bladed knife—not nearly as long as the bread knife, and not serrated, but large and imposing nonetheless. She looked up at him in shock. "Surely you aren't serious? My finger has not even healed yet."

"Then I trust you will be exceptionally cautious," he replied. He watched and waited until she reluctantly took up the handle of the knife, and then he made quick work of peeling a potato that he placed on the cutting board before her.

She stared down at the freshly skinned vegetable: once upon a time inoffensive to her, but now the source of her mounting anxiety. Then Erik came to stand behind her, his chest pressed lightly to her back as he placed his spindly hands on top of hers to guide them, and she felt a renewed affection for the little potato.

Her fingers trembled: whether from her nerves or his touch, she could not say. "Steady, little fawn," he murmured, and he tightened his grip on her hands to still them. Then he showed her how to hold the vegetable, how to curl her fingers in so as not to slice into them (again), how to run her knife blade through the pale flesh and move the potato into position for the next cut. When they were both confident enough in her ability, he released her and moved off to the side.

From there, she peeled and diced potatoes and turnips, and she lopped the long green tops off of the spring onions. She trimmed delicate little Dutch carrots and shelled peas and crushed garlic. Erik peeled and chopped alongside her to speed the process along, but he made sure that she had a chance to work with each vegetable, to grow accustomed to its smell, its weight and texture in her hand, its resistance to the downward slice of her knife.

It was tedious work, and Clara tried to make small talk during the moments when she did not feel completely in over her head. During her pea-shelling, she had the good sense to thank Erik for the additional boat at her disposal. "It's my favorite color," she noted, flashing him a small smile.

"As I suspected," he said. "And now I can say with confidence that your preferred flower is the forget-me-not."

She fought to keep her smile from broadening. "Forget-me-nots are lovely, aren't they? So cheerful and unassuming." She picked up the finished bowl of shelled peas to give to him. "They are not, however, my favorite."

He momentarily froze, the bowl suspended between them mid-handoff. He seemed to be staring down at her, but it was difficult to see his eyes in the kitchen light. And then he was back at the counter, adding the peas to their growing stash of prepared ingredients before he moved on to another task. "An oversight," he responded tersely. "It will not happen again."

"Of course," she said. He reminded her of Margot then, how she had been so quick to anger and self-loathe when proved wrong. It was an attitude that Clara had found both amusing and endearing, much to her sister's dismay. She bit back a grin and grabbed a turnip.

By the time the produce was ready, her hands ached, and she'd accomplished only a fraction of what Erik had. "Now the lamb shoulder," he announced as he pulled out the cut of meat, and she groaned. How did _anyone_ have time to do this and still manage to keep a house and a family and, God help them, employment?

Together they trimmed, cubed, and seasoned the lamb before browning it in a deep cast-iron pot, with Erik lecturing her every step of the way. Then came the seasonings and liquids, after which he covered the pot with a lid. "Now we leave it to simmer. We shall start on the vegetables in about an hour."

"An hour! What are we supposed to do in that time?"

"Your choice," he said. "I had intended for us to prepare a fig tart"—here she whimpered at the thought of additional food preparation—"or, we may take a break and deprive Nadir of his dessert."

She mulled it over. "Well...are not figs in and of themselves an acceptable dessert?"

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Too right," he said. "What shall we do with our newfound free time, then?"

"Teach me one of your magic tricks?"

"Illusions, Clara," he corrected her.

"An illusion, then. Something that I can use to toy with Nadir."

And then he did smile: close-lipped and measured, but still, it was there. "I like the way you think, Toussaint."

* * *

When it was time for Erik to row across the lake and collect Nadir, Clara was left to set the table and see the vegetables through to completion before incorporating them into the stew. She even sliced a baguette without incident, despite a second appearance of the scary bread knife. When the two men entered the dining room, it was bathed in warm candlelight, their dinner laid out in a serving dish next to the bread and butter and salt.

"Everything looks wonderful," Nadir told her once they had exchanged greetings. Erik pulled out a chair for her, and the three of them sat for supper.

"Shouldn't we have wine with our meal?" she asked.

"Alas, I do not drink," the daroga replied. "My beliefs forbid it."

"And I was not planning to eat," Erik said as he pushed aside the place setting that she had laid out for him.

"Despite his prowess in the kitchen," Nadir expounded, "Erik scarcely eats a morsel."

Well, that explained a lot. "Monsieur Erik," she scolded, "do you mean to tell me that you are not going to try so much as one bite of the meal that you have had me slave over for the past several hours? How can you even expect to offer critique?"

Erik pursed his lips and glowered at the serving dish; she decided that his silence was submission enough and stood in order to reach over and drag his place setting back into position. With slow reluctance, he scooped a meager portion of the stew onto his plate. She sat back down in appeasement.

"It will be a pinot noir, then," he said gruffly, and he rose to retrieve a bottle and two glasses.

Once the wine was poured, they tucked into the meal in silence. Nadir, who had watched the earlier exchange without comment, looked from Clara to Erik, and then to Erik's portion of lamb, which he was now delicately cutting with fork and knife. The Persian opened his mouth to speak, apparently decided otherwise, closed it, and returned his attention to his plate.

"This is quite good," he said between mouthfuls. "My compliments to the chef."

"Clara," Erik said, while Clara simultaneously replied, "Erik."

There was a round of muted chuckling before Nadir picked up his water glass, raising it in mock tribute. "You must make a good team, then. It is a wonder you are still talking to each other." He brought the glass to his lips.

"Yes, miraculously, not even one appearance of the Punjab lasso," Clara replied, and Nadir choked on a mouthful of water, barely managing to cup a hand over his mouth before he sprayed the table with liquid.

"Careful there, daroga," said Erik, with barely restrained glee. He tossed his napkin across the table to Nadir as the daroga sputtered and dried himself off.

Dinner flowed into dessert, for which Clara was instructed to sear the sliced figs and drizzle them with honey, while Erik selected dessert wine and made coffee. Dessert transitioned into cards, though that grew tiresome after Erik won for the fifth time in a row. Still, Clara enjoyed the wine and the company, the quiet banter, the lack of pretension. She smiled through all of it.

As the night drew to a close, she performed for the daroga her newly learned illusion, in which she used sleight of hand to make a coin seemingly vanish when she blew on her fingers. She had practiced it approximately fifty times that evening, with varying degrees of success, and managed to execute it perfectly. He complimented her skill but then groaned, adding, "I don't think I can handle _two_ of you engaging in these shenanigans."

"Then perhaps now is not the best time to inform you that I stole your pocket-watch two hours ago?" Erik gently tossed the gold timepiece and chain onto the table. "You are slipping, old man."

The daroga sighed as he reached out to retrieve his watch. "Why, Erik? _Why_?"

Erik shrugged. "Boredom?"

Nadir eyed him dubiously and said, "I don't see how you could possibly be bored among such pleasant company." Both men glanced at Clara, who flushed.

"Malice, then?" Erik offered.

Nadir laughed and got to his feet. "I'll chalk it up to your insatiable appetite for mischief," he said, moving out into the drawing-room to collect his coat and hat. Clara and Erik rose to follow him. "And now I must take my leave," he continued. "I'm afraid I cannot keep such late hours as I used to. Might I escort you home, Clara?"

"Oh! That is kind of you, daroga." She had expected to have some time alone with Erik, sans cooking, once Nadir left, and the offer caught her off guard. She bit her lip and searched for some excuse to stay, but nothing that she thought of sounded less than desperate.

In the meantime, Nadir had put on his things and he began to assist with her cloak, so she went along with it. It was only another three days until her next lesson with Erik, she reminded herself. Surely she could wait _three days_.

She turned to him to offer some parting words but could not seem to manage more than an awkward smile of gratitude. He was also silent, picking at a thread at the hem of his waistcoat.

Nadir looked from Clara to Erik and then announced, "I will untie the boat. Join me when you are ready, Clara." He headed out toward the lake.

"Take the blue one!" Erik called after him. As he found and held her gaze, he added, "It is Clara's."

They continued to regard each other without speaking. His sleeves were still pushed up, and she found herself distracted by his lanky arms and the way his veins snaked so close to the surface, as though a simple papercut would do him in. There was lean muscle there, too, which she had not noticed before. She longed to reach out and touch the underside of his arm, just to know what that paper-thin skin might feel like.

He cleared his throat, startling her into focus. "Well. This was...not altogether unpleasant," he said.

"Yes," she agreed, "although next time we ought to enjoy the occasion less at Nadir's expense."

"I might if he did not make it so flagrantly easy."

She smiled. "Well, in any case, thank you. For everything. I really did enjoy all of it, except for the bread knife bit."

He nodded and replied, "Your progress was satisfactory. Let us hope that we can say the same after this Friday's undertaking."

"Oh, goodness. And what might that be?"

One corner of his mouth curled back to form a smirk. "Patience, little fawn. One lesson at a time."

* * *

A/N: "One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity" is quoted directly from Leroux. Triple bonus points to anyone who spotted the Arrested Development reference! I couldn't resist.

The next few chapters are ones that I've been excited to write for a long time. I can't wait to finish and share them. :)


	14. The Order of the Cosmos

The dinner with Nadir had been an unparalleled start to the month of May, already one of Clara's favorite months. Her weeks had substance now, and as she absorbed what each one had to offer, she felt the gnawing void at her core beginning to shrink.

She learned skills that varied in usefulness and seemed subject to the whims of her tutor: washing and ironing, baking, building a fire, more sleight of hand, picking locks. She helped to care for César and learned how to pick Pastille's hooves so that the stable-hands would not see the evidence of her nighttime riding. She drew the line at breathing underwater with a hollow reed despite the fact that Erik seemed unusually proud of this talent, which he claimed to have learned from pirates.

She liked the cooking best, in part because it was so tactile. The feel of the produce and meat and utensils beneath her fingertips both soothed and invigorated her. She also liked that it provided ample opportunity for conversation. And, of course, she was all too aware that her cooking made Erik feel obliged to eat.

There were the meet-ups with Nadir, too: some with Erik, full of card games and sharp banter and allusions to a distant time in a distant land. But there were some without Erik, too, when the daroga indulged in chocolate macarons and confided that he had lost both a wife and a young son back in Persia. It surprised her to find that she cherished these sessions even more.

Her lessons with Erik remained on Tuesdays and Fridays, always at the same time, Erik always waiting with his large white stallion at the Rue des Filles du Calvaire in order to escort her to the Rue Scribe. It was all quite measured and respectful.

Until it wasn't.

She broke the pattern a few weeks in, when the household staff were instructed to start clearing out Margot's room. Clara was asked to go through her sister's things and keep what she liked. In the end, she selected only a mother-of-pearl comb that Margot had adored, and then she retreated to her bedroom so as not to see all of the garment bags and hatboxes being paraded down the staircase.

That same night, she rowed her little blue boat across the underground lake and into the soft, honeyed tendrils of a Mozart concerto for violin. She stepped into the drawing-room to find Erik playing in near-darkness, with only a few lit candles for company. His eyes like embers fixed on her, but he did not stop playing. She watched, enraptured, until he finished the song and let the bow and instrument fall to his sides.

"Good evening, Clara." His voice was subdued, as though lulled into complacency by his own tender music.

"I'm sorry," she said, suddenly embarrassed by her intrusion. "It was rude of me to come like this. I should just—"

He held up a slender hand to stop her. "Please. What brings you here?"

"I could not be in the house tonight," she said simply, "and I thought...better here than elsewhere? I do not need to be entertained, though; I brought a book."

"Mm. Very well, then, have a seat."

She crossed to the loveseat and removed the book from her satchel, while he set the violin aside and fired up the gas lamps. "What are you reading?" he inquired.

"Something that my aunt selected, I'm afraid." She held it up to show him: _Beauty, What It Is, and How to Retain It_.

There was a beat of silence before he said, "No."

"No?"

"I refuse to allow that tripe in my home. Come; we are going out." And then he took her to the Louvre, where he proceeded—to her mild terror—to bypass all security measures and sneak them into the museum.

He seemed to know the patrol route of every night watchman, and he shuffled her about accordingly. They spent the small hours of the morning examining Vermeer's _The Lacemaker_ in great detail and wandering through the Department of Egyptian Antiquities, where he pointed out a glass case containing a painted wooden funerary marker, similar to a tombstone. "It is called a stele," he said. "The lady painted on either side is the deceased, and she is depicted worshipping the gods so that she will receive eternal sustenance."

"Oh, but her remains have been separated from her stele! Won't that disrupt the sustenance?"

"I imagine so, if one were to put stock in that sort of thing."

"What a terrible shame."

"Mm, indeed," he affirmed, circling round to the other side of the tablet. "Sometimes one merely wants to lie in peace in one's sarcophagus—or coffin, as it may be—only to have that rest disturbed by archaeologists or shrieking trespassers."

Clara put her hands to her hips. "Those incidents are hardly comparable. And I doubt that"—she leaned forward to read the caption—" _Lady Taperet_ inhabited her sarcophagus while she was still breathing."

"Regardless," he said, "that is not why I showed you this particular artifact. Come." He motioned for her to stand next to him.

She obeyed, drawing in closer to examine the opposite side of the stele, and let out a small gasp of delight. What she had initially perceived as a blue border around the painted scene was actually the long, supple body of a woman: feet and legs along the left side, a torso dotted with gold stars arcing across the top, and then head, hair, and outstretched arms cascading down the right side. It was Nut, just as Clara had envisioned the deity. "Our favorite sky-goddess!" she said to Erik.

He nodded, clearly pleased by her interest. "She was thought to pull the dead into her embrace, into the sky, and then nourish and protect them. Her likeness has been found on many tombs and sarcophagi."

Clara let out a contented sigh. "I adore her."

"She was adored by many, in her time." Erik checked his pocket watch. "We had best move on, or I shall have to Punjab a night watchman. Have you seen the new Oriental Antiquities gallery?"

"That is _not_ funny," she said, crossing her arms.

"Well now, that is subjective, isn't it?" With that, he sauntered off, declaring, "Onto the Orient!"

* * *

The unplanned invasion of Erik's home repeated itself a few days later, after Isaac Verne was invited back for Sunday dinner and Clara was made all too aware of her father's renewed intentions. Erik was reading by the fire when she arrived. "And what have you brought this time?" he asked, eying her satchel.

"Oh...the same book," she realized sheepishly. "I never took it out to exchange it."

"May I see it?"

She nodded in surprised agreement and pulled out _Beauty, What It Is, and How to Retain It_. He came over to retrieve it, stalked back across the room, and threw it into the fire, where it was incinerated in a burst of crackling flame. "I did warn you," he said. "Consider it a favor."

* * *

May pranced into June. As the weather warmed and the delicate spring blooms gave way to the hearty greenery of summer, the strange relationship between the phantom and the fawn continued to blossom. Still operating in the shadow of Erik's near-violent sense of self-preservation, however, Clara did not allow herself to consider—let alone speak of—this development. It was perhaps not unrelated, then, that she delayed the inevitable.

It was mid-June, at the start of a Tuesday piano lesson, when she broke the news. Erik was changing the strings on his violin, having promised that they would play a duet for the first time. Clara, struck by a fleeting surge of courage, stopped the scales she had been playing in order to address him.

"Erik," she began. "There is something that I have been meaning to tell you."

"Spit it out, then." He did not so much as pause in his handiwork.

"My family owns a home on the coast, near Deauville. We go up there every year for the summer season." No reaction. "I leave at the end of the week, after our Friday lesson, and will remain there until early September."

He did halt then, but still he did not look up from the instrument. "I see," he said, and his fingers slowly resumed their work.

She was watching him carefully now, waiting to see whether he might betray any sense of feeling. "I do apologize," she continued, "and I hope that the break in our routine will not be too disruptive. Though, when I mentioned it to Nadir, he indicated that he would be happy to pester you more than usual." She offered a feeble smile, but he did not see it.

Instead, his neck muscles tensed. "You already told the daroga."

"Yes, I paid him a recent visit, and it just came out. I'm sorry; was that wrong of me?"

He stood and, with his back to her, began to tuck the violin and bow into their case. "You are under no obligation to report any personal details to me."

She was not sure how she had expected Erik to react, and she was certainly used to his cool detachment, but this particular interaction stung. "Why are you putting away your violin?" she asked, and she could hear the hostility creeping into her voice. "We were to have a lesson."

He latched the case and finally turned to face down at her. From where she sat on the piano bench beneath him, he looked impossibly tall. "Come now, Clara," he said. "This has never been about lessons." He extended a hand and she took it, wholly uncertain of what he intended.

"Let us drop the pretense for tonight," he continued as he pulled her to her feet, "and make the most of your final week in Paris."

At this, her stiffness melted and she positively beamed. "What did you have in mind?"

"I think it is time that you received a private tour of my opera house."

* * *

Under Erik's guidance, Clara explored areas of the Palais Garnier that had been previously off-limits to her. She walked out onto the vast stage, took in the flies overhead and the deep storage spaces below. She studied the props tables set up in the wings, the garment racks bursting with cream-colored tulle. He took her to the dancers' rehearsal spaces and to the atelier where the costumes were made.

Later, they walked up the grand staircase and along the grand foyer, both familiar features given new life through Erik's intimate details of their construction, through his discussion of various sculptures and painted ceilings. They passed into the abutting avant-foyer, where she gazed up at breathtaking mosaic panels that depicted such mythological figures as Psyche and Hermes, Orpheus and Eurydice.

This smaller of the two foyers ended at a doorway into a small, round salon. "I have never actually been in here," Clara said as she peered in.

"Indeed? Now that surprises me." Erik's long legs carried him easily to the center of the room, where he turned and beckoned for her to follow. "Come, see for yourself."

There was an abundance of white-gold gilding on the walls, its brilliance and sharp angles providing a stark and modern contrast to the otherwise dark paneling. The reflections of the room's four large, silver-backed mirrors made it seem all the more opulent. The domed ceiling boasted hundreds of pointy silver moon-rays, dotted with gold stars, that fanned out from the base of a dangling chandelier. And beneath her feet, the white marble floor was inlaid with gold stars and black bats and owls.

"It is stunningly unique," she remarked. "Though, would it be terrible of me to say that I find it a bit garish?"

"Hm?" Erik, who had been inspecting the dust on a mirror-frame with his fingertip, broke away from the diversion with a frown as he processed her words. "Oh, no, not at all. It was completed in a hurry to be finished in time for the inauguration. Charles was not pleased, either; he likened it to a chocolate box lined with foil."

"Charles?"

"Garnier. The architect. Curious man; quite predisposed to excess. Terribly unflattering haircut, though I never could convince him of that."

Clara watched him pace the circumference of the room, his hands clasped at the back of his swallow-tailed coat, his eyes taking in details that they had likely seen a hundred times before. He left so many unanswered questions in his wake that she could not pick just one to ask.

"This is all very lovely," she said, "but it is not quite the tour I had expected."

At this, he pivoted to face her, his head tilted. "And what, precisely, is it that you wish to see?"

"Your _secret_ opera house, Erik. The one that I presume is full of hidden passageways and trapdoors." She smiled coyly. "Impress me."

He straightened, and his eyes were positively gleaming. "Oh, dear," he said silkily. "I dare say that you have learned how to play to my ego, little fawn. Very well, then; how would you like to play a game of hide-and-seek?"

His words thrilled her to the core, and she nodded in agreement.

The terms were simple: She would get a lantern and a three-minute head start to go anywhere in the building, and he would find her by navigating only those passages and crawl spaces hidden from view. She could tell that he relished the challenge, while she, meanwhile, was eager to learn his secrets.

Once she left him in the _salon de la lune_ , where he was to time her with his pocket-watch, she fled into the grand foyer and rounded a corner into a long corridor. At its end, she found herself passing into the opera library: two floors of glossy, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. There were low storage cupboards built into the bottom bookcases, ones that a man could easily crawl through, so she positioned herself on the upper level, where the balcony allowed her to keep watch of the space at large.

Nearly ten minutes passed, and she grew restless. She began to quietly pace the upper level, scanning the titles as she went. She was nearing the opposite end of a row when a hand shot out from a gap between the bookcases and latched onto her wrist. She shrieked, nearly dropping the lantern.

Erik's muted laughter drifted out from behind the books as he released her arm. She could see now that one of the cases was on hinges, allowing it to swing open like a heavy door. She pulled it open farther in order to peek into the narrow pathway that ran behind the walls, allowing Erik to step out into the library.

"I cannot believe I overlooked the hidden bookcase," she told him as she swung it back into place. "It's so cliché."

"Surely you will do better next time," he replied.

"Next—"

"Three minutes, Clara! Off you go!" And then the pocket-watch was out.

Eyes wide, she fled down the stairs and out of the library. She was already woefully out of breath, but the chase was exhilarating. She felt like a small child again, hiding from her sister on the grounds of their summer home, and laughter bubbled up in her breast.

She truly wanted to outsmart him now, and in her mind she started running through every inch of the opera house that she knew of. Was there not _one place_ where he could not go?

And then it hit her: the boxes in the auditorium. He had diverted her party to his own box five on the night when he demanded his ring back, meaning that he did not have access to the interior of their loge. She headed for second-tier box nineteen.

It further occurred to her in the corridor outside it that if he could not access her box, then he likely could not access the others, either. Therefore, just to throw him off, she barricaded herself in the salon of the neighboring loge instead. She locked the door and made sure that the curtains separating the salon from the box seats were closed, and then she sat in a plush upholstered armchair to wait.

She was alone much longer this time. She began debating how long she ought to let him search before she showed herself. The pride she felt from her success, however, was quickly supplanted by disappointment: part of her, she realized, had actually _wanted_ him to find her.

Suddenly, the doorknob to the salon made a quiet quarter-turn, until it hit the locking mechanism and stopped. She held her breath. All was silent again.

And then his voice, low and sonorous, filled the dark spaces around her. "Ahh, very clever indeed!"

It startled her, and even as she smiled in recognition, her heart began to thump against the confines of her chest. She waited to see what he might do.

"Won't you let me in, little fawn?" There was an almost predatory sultriness to his voice, like a fox requesting entry to a henhouse. She picked up her skirts and crossed the salon to unlock the heavy mahogany door.

He stood practically inside the doorway, so close that she found herself staring into the stiff black lapels of his tailcoat. She looked up to find his eyes narrowed to pinpricks of light. He did not speak.

Testing the dangerous waters, she announced, "I win."

He glowered at her. His voice was unusually quiet as he replied, "We both know how easily I could have bypassed that lock."

Accordingly, when she gave her response, it was practically a whisper. "A lock that is decidedly not a trapdoor."

For a long moment there was only the sound of their breathing. He leaned in, and for one exhilarating second, she thought that he might kiss her. Instead, he reached down and lifted the lantern from her hand.

"Come," he said. "I have one last thing to show you."

Clara struggled to bury her disappointment as she followed him down the corridor. Kissing Erik had not previously occurred to her as a possibility, but now that it had, she could hardly think of anything else. Was he even the kissing type? She suspected not, but on the other hand, he did seem to know how to do practically _everything_. Also, she knew that he had been in love at least once.

An unsettling thought, that. But it would do her no good to dwell on it now. She tried to focus on where they were going instead: backstage, and up many flights of stairs. They crossed a narrow catwalk, and when it ended at a large window, he pushed the panes open. A crisp breeze blew in, and she was suddenly all too aware of their destination.

As he climbed through the opening and down what appeared to be a short ladder, Erik said, "I hope that you are not afraid of heights."

"I suppose I shall find out," she replied. She forced a nervous smile and dutifully followed him out the window and down the ladder.

It took her a moment to get her bearings, but the night was clear and the moon nearly full, bathing the rooftop of the Palais Garnier in silvery light, and she could see that they had exited the westernmost of the two smaller green copper domes atop the building. To one side of her was the Rue Scribe; to the other was the pitched roof of the flytower, the highest point of the opera house, which sat behind the famous central green dome and its crowning statue of Apollo with his lyre.

"We are not nearly as high as I had expected," she remarked.

"We can climb higher, if you wish. I had assumed that you would not want to."

She recalled her first foray into the Rue Scribe entrance of his home: _How you surprise me with these strange bouts of courage_ , he had said, and she had not forgotten the sound nor the feeling of that murmured admiration.

"Let's go higher," she decreed.

It was a taller ladder up to the pitched flytower roof, and he had her go first, she assumed because he did not trust her not to fall—and rightly so, she supposed. However, she held fast and clambered onto the flytower without incident. Once there, she remained motionless until Erik joined her, and then she clutched at his sleeve to steady herself as she sank down against the surface.

"You are shaking," he observed.

"Oh, yes, ignore that," she replied. "I seem to have developed an irrational fear that any movement I make up here will send me plummeting to my death." She released her grip on him, sighing in relief as she was fully seated, and then she lay her back against the steeply pitched roof to take in the night sky. "But how many chances does one get to stargaze on the roof of the Paris Opera?"

Erik lowered himself to recline parallel to her. "Many," he said, "if you play your cards right."

A warm smile spread across her face. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him then. She turned to look at him, but his gaze was directed upward. His lanky arms and neck were stiff, as though he could not get used to the sloped and vulnerable position in which he now found himself.

No matter. She did not know how to kiss, and she would hardly be the one to initiate it. No, she would just have to be content to pine indefinitely.

The stars were not as prolific here in the City of Light as they were on the summer nights along the coast that she had so long adored, but they still put on a good show, and the heavens were colored a beautifully saturated onyx. "Nut is looking lovely tonight," she said.

"Indeed."

Silence settled upon them like a warm blanket, both welcome and uniting as they soaked in the inky sky. Clara was not inclined to break that silence, even when she thought she saw a shooting star.

Ultimately, it was Erik who did. "She was believed to be the barrier between the order of the cosmos and the forces of chaos," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Nut. She kept chaos at bay." He paused and then added, "It is why I often consider death."

She turned back to regard him then. "What do you mean?"

"That loving embrace is far more appealing than one's internal chaos," he said, "and one of the two has to emerge victorious at some point."

Oh, how his words hurt her heart. "There are other options," she insisted. "Let me help you." Without even thinking, she reached out to take his hand.

His head snapped sideways to look at her, his eyes two wide, flaring pools of gold that then trailed their gaze down to the pair of newly joined hands. He began to shake his head. "You are too good," he murmured, stroking the top of her thumb with his own. "Too kind. Erik does not deserve your compassion."

"Oh, hush," she said. "Everybody deserves compassion."

He let out a bitter chuckle. "Surely you cannot believe that, you naive little thing. There are some truly deplorable humans in this world. Perhaps I am even one of them."

"Not that I agree with your assessment," she replied, "but those are the people who need more compassion than any of us." She gave his hand a quick squeeze and settled back to watch the stars again.

They lay hand in hand for several minutes. Their hold was light at first—apprehensive, even—but Erik gradually wound his fingers through hers, and she could not help but smile up at the sky.

It was quite cool for a night in June, more so with the breeze that kept sweeping in. Clara tried to steel her body against the chill in the air, but it was relentless and chipped away at her resolve. Finally, she lifted Erik's arm enough to slip under it and lie flush against him.

She heard and felt his breath hitch as she lay her head on his bony chest, felt his muscles contract as she snaked her arm across his torso. There was indeed warmth there, and she relaxed against him. He remained far too tense, but she stayed as she was, hoping that her deepening breaths would lull him into repose. She did not bother to consider the alternative—rejection—because everything about their contact felt inexorable, as though her body had been drawn into his through divine intervention.

Slowly, hesitantly, his arms came up to wrap around her. Long fingers fanned across her back and curled into her skin and muscle as though they feared letting go.

She sucked in one long, shaky breath and then let it all out in a contented sigh.

And there they remained—even when, a moment later, Erik's breath choked and his chest began to shake. Clara simply tightened her hold. While the sky-goddess embraced her beloved dead up above, the fawn embraced the phantom as he wept.


	15. Eve of Departure

That night, Clara dreamt that she broke into Margot's tomb to paint a sky-goddess depiction on the inside of the lid. When she opened the vessel, however, she found Erik stretched out along the satin-lined interior. He was fast asleep.

"Time to wake, little fawn," said his rich, lilting voice, but it did not come from the sleeping figure beneath her; it came from somewhere much more external.

She slowly opened her eyes to near-darkness. She was lying on her side, arm under her head like a pillow, body on a strange incline. The surface beneath her was painfully unyielding, and she stretched her sore muscles as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

Before her lay the whole of Paris. The sudden realization that she had fallen asleep on the roof of the opera house was made all the more painful by how utterly _real_ her dream with Margot—or the lack of Margot—had felt. She almost wanted to cry.

Erik sat off to her side, easily an arm's length away, one long leg outstretched and the other bent with its sharp kneebone pointed up to the sky. She was quite certain that he had not been so far away when she had last seen him.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked.

"Half an hour," he said. "We ought to get you home."

She nodded, and he helped her descend the ladder in relative silence.

Their descent into the opera cellars was equally constrained. He did not speak of the circumstances surrounding her slip into unconsciousness, so neither did she. But she could not forget the way in which his body had stiffened at her touch, unyielding and unsure, as though he had never been embraced like that before.

Was that even _possible_?

He escorted her home with little ceremony, offering nothing in the way of conversation until it came time for them to part. "I shall ask Nadir to join us on Friday," he said then. "I am sure that he would like to see you off."

"As long as I do not have to cook," she joked.

He gave her something resembling a tight-lipped smile, as though his mind was otherwise distracted, perhaps even burdened. "That will not be necessary," he said. "You will be the guest of honor." Then he did little more than tip his hat before he and César sped off into the night, leaving her to wonder what exactly had transpired in his head during that half-hour of sleep.

* * *

On Friday she met Nadir at the Rue Scribe entrance. They walked down to the lake together, and when he insisted on rowing she let him, despite the unusual possessiveness she felt toward the little blue boat.

"Nadir," she said as the oars sliced through murky water, "how is it that you and Erik came to be friends? And I don't mean the circumstances in which you met, but rather the actual mechanisms of friendship. Because"—here she paused, unsure of how to articulate her thoughts—"well...you know how he is."

"Indeed, I do," he said with a chuckle. He was silent for a few strokes, perhaps mulling over his words. "It can take some effort to be around a man of Erik's intelligence and temper," he finally said. "But to have his respect, his ear—the rewards then are far, far greater than with any ordinary acquaintance." He looked up at her. "But then, you know that."

Clara smiled. "Yes."

"He moves me," Nadir continued, "with his thoughtfulness. He just has an odd way of expressing it at times."

"So what are the rewards that you have reaped, monsieur?"

"My life," he said simply. "I could enumerate his favors, but that is what they boil down to. On more than one occasion he has handed me the opportunity to pick up and move on, often so unobtrusively that I scarcely knew he was doing it."

"Is it a sense of debt that has led you to forgive him his past transgressions?"

Nadir shrugged. "I forgive him because I must," he said. "After all, is it not said that forgiveness is more effective than punishment? Allah knows that Erik has had enough punishment in his life for twenty men, and it has only served to harm him further." He stopped to wipe his palms on his trousers before taking up the oars again. "Besides," he continued, "his meddlesome provocation keeps me on my toes. But do not tell him I said that."

Erik met them at the drawing-room entrance. "Daroga," he said, his usual greeting punctuated by his usual cursory nod. "You shall find the tea tray laid out for you just over there. Come, Clara, and tell me what you'd like to drink."

She followed him to the sideboard in the dining room where he kept his decanters and a few bottles of wine from the cellar. It was only once she had made her selection and was waiting for him to pour it that she noticed the vase of voluminous, pale-pink flowers at the center of the dining table. "Peonies," she said breathlessly.

"Indeed," he confirmed, handing her a glass of wine, and he set to pouring another for himself. "There is something endearing about the peony, the bashful way in which it tries to withhold all of its beautiful layers." He corked the wine bottle and turned to look at her. "But ah, when it finally reaches full bloom and unfolds those lush petals—that is truly something to behold." His pointed gaze did not leave her face as he paused to sip his wine. "Wouldn't you agree, Clara?"

All she could do was nod.

"And might you even say that the peony is your favorite?"

"Yes," she confessed, the word no more than a soft exhale of breath.

"Good," he said, and he touched his glass to hers with a melodious _clink_. "Cheers." He headed back to the drawing-room, leaving her no choice but to follow, dumbfounded.

It was their most enjoyable night yet, which made for some bittersweet contemplation as Clara imagined their next three months apart. Still, she remained cheerful for the conversation and cards, reveling in not one, but _two_ , victories over Erik. Apart from the brief, tight-lipped sulking that followed his loss at a round of cards, he seemed unusually at ease. More than once he treated them to the rare occurrence that was his laughter, a quiet, sonorous rumble that sent effervescent warmth dancing down her spine.

She drank more wine as the night wore on, and she caught herself sneaking frequent glances at him: his frown of concentration as he contemplated his next move, the way his spindly fingertips tiptoed along the top edges of the cards fanned out in his hand before he plucked the one he was to play. She shivered as she recalled how those same fingers had spread across her back earlier in the week. The urge to touch him—an "accidental" brush of her fingers against his, a playful hand on his knee—plagued her at every turn, but she was all too aware of Nadir's watchful eye.

Therefore, her heart leapt for joy when he announced that he had a mid-morning engagement and thus needed to get home to bed. He stood to collect his hat without even bothering to ask whether she would like to come, and in that moment, she wanted to hug him.

Conversely, she wanted to strangle Erik upon hearing his reply. "Now, daroga, what could possibly be so important that you would abandon Clara on her last day in the city?" he chided. "Quit acting like an old man and sit for another round."

"Let him be, Erik," Clara insisted. "He is tired." She looked up at the daroga and smiled, adding, "Please, Nadir, do go home and rest."

"He can handle it." There was a domineering edge to Erik's voice, and it gave rise to a palpable tension when he added, "Daroga, I must insist that you stay."

Clara and Nadir exchanged glances. What on earth was he playing at? She would ask him later, she decided, but for now she simply wanted to release the poor daroga to his bed. "I assure you, we will be absolutely fine on our own," she told him. "As the guest of honor, I wish for you to _not_ let Erik guilt you into staying."

Next to her, Erik stiffened. Nadir's gaze flitted between the two of them, and he hesitated. "Well," he said, "who am I to argue with the wishes of our guest of honor?"

Resigned but clearly bristling with agitation, Erik donned his hat in order to row Nadir across the lake, and Clara was left to her own devices for the time being.

The wine heightened her curiosity and emboldened her, and she began to explore the bedroom with the Louis-Philippe furniture, running her fingers over the solid mahogany bedstead, the marble-topped table. It was not in fashion anymore, this style, and she wondered whether it was quite old. The scratches and scuff marks on the wood seemed to indicate so.

There were two doors within the bedroom: one cracked open, the other pulled shut. She investigated the former first. It led to a small but lovely ensuite bathroom, complete with a claw-footed porcelain tub and a stack of fresh white linens that were indescribably soft beneath her fingers.

She drifted back into the bedroom and pushed open the opposite door. Then she stood, blinking, in an attempt to understand the strange room in which she now found herself.

From the reflection of the bedroom light, she could see that the walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors: six of them, forming a hexagon. There was something tall and narrow and dark in the center of the room, and she moved closer to examine it.

The door snapped shut behind her, eclipsing all light from the room.

She spun around, fumbling for some means to exit, but door had become mirror and she felt only glass: no knobs, no handles, no seams.

There was a faint clicking sound, and suddenly the space was flooded with overhead light, so bright that it could only be electric. It bore down on her with the harshness of a midday summer sun. Her eyes, now accustomed to the dim lighting in Erik's subterranean dwelling, began to see spots. She lifted an arm to shield her face and was stunned by her newly illuminated surroundings: she was in the center of a forest.

It was not a real forest, of course, but the infinite hexagonal reflection of a single tree before her. A _tree_ , here in the underground. She reached out with hesitant fingertips to touch the trunk; it was dark and cool. Iron.

Clara slowly circled the tree, her fingers tracing its circumference as she went. The room was a riddle now, and she meant to solve it. What use could Erik possibly have for a fake iron forest, and how did one escape from it?

Then she came to the opposite side of the trunk. There, dangling from a large, thick branch, was a noose.

She gasped and stumbled backward into the mirrored wall, pressing her back to it, making her way around the perimeter until she was back where she had started. Here she turned to face the mirror, frantically searching for any anomaly that would indicate an opening. "Erik?" she called, but she knew that he would not be back yet.

There was another clicking sound, but she did not detect any change in the room. Resignedly, she sank to the ground, arms around her knees, to wait out his return. Now that she knew the noose was there, she could see it reflected a hundred times over. It made her shudder.

She waited a good five minutes with mounting impatience. The stuffiness of the room, combined with the harsh overhead light and her many layers of clothing, had caused a sweat to break out on her brow. She wiped at it with her sleeve, but it kept returning.

Then, suddenly, it was harder to breathe. The inside of her mouth began to parch. She realized, with abject terror, that the room was growing hotter.

She was on her feet again in an instant. "Erik!" she yelled, pounding against the glass with open palms. She called for him again and again, curling her hands into fists, banging on the walls, but still he did not come.

Her black crêpe skirt and jacket began to feel unbearably oppressive. She clawed at her high-necked collar, her fingers slipping with sweat as she tried to work the buttons loose. She managed to pull it open down to just below her collarbone, where the lacy white trim of her chemise was plastered to the flushed skin of her chest, before her hands fell languidly to her sides and she slumped back against the mirror-wall.

It was almost too hot to move now. Clara's breath was coming in shallow gasps, never enough to fill her lungs as needed, and she could practically hear her rapid pulse in her ears. Perspiration stung her eyes and clouded her vision. She could just make out the outline of the noose in one of its many reflections, and it was with startling clarity that she realized its purpose: a means to the end of one's own suffering. It taunted her with the promise of death—one way or the other.

The panel behind her opened suddenly. With a gasp, she spilled onto cool stone floor that felt so marvelous against her exposed skin, she might have wept had she not been so dehydrated. The change in air temperature was just as welcome, though perhaps too drastic based on her body's reactionary shaking. She glimpsed the pointed toes of Erik's shoes just as she was lifted—a mess of hot, clammy limbs and damp clothing—and rushed to the ensuite bathroom.

He sat her next to him on the edge of the white porcelain tub, pressing one arm against her back to steady her while the other moved, busily, out of her sight. She heard running water, and then a tumbler was pushed into her hands. "Drink," Erik ordered. He cupped her shaking hands with one of his own to help her lift the glass to her lips. Cool water trickled onto her tongue, and she gasped, trying to force larger quantities down her sandpaper throat. "Easy," he intoned, tugging back on the tumbler before she choked.

She drained the glass, rasping, "More, please," and he refilled it before placing it back in her steadying hands. Apparently satisfied by her self-sufficiency, he set to soaking washcloths in water.

A cool, damp cloth was draped over the back of her neck. Another he spread across her upper chest, at the base of her throat, and a third he pressed to her forehead, rinsing it over and over again as it was warmed by her feverish skin.

Gradually, Clara's skin cooled and her heart rate slowed. She drank her fill of water and gave him the glass, which he set on the corner of the sink. Then she sighed into his shoulder as his free hand began to push damp tendrils of tawny hair from her brow.

"I am so sorry," he moaned. "Oh, little fawn, please forgive me. I ought to have disabled the torture chamber. Foolish Erik! He did not _think_."

"I don't understand," she replied, her voice still hoarse. " _Why_ do you have a torture chamber, Erik?"

"It is a remnant of another time," he said, "quite a different time. Oh, Clara, I would burn it to the ground this second if I could!" He placed the back of his hand to her temple and, apparently satisfied with its temperature, peeled from her skin the various washcloths, which he tossed into the tub.

"You will absolutely not destroy it," she said, "before you tell me how it works."

He laughed softly, his shoulders sinking with relief. "You have become too curious for your own good, my little fawn."

Her head shot up to look at him. Had she read too far into his words, or had something shifted between them? Never before had so much weight been attached to so small a pronoun: _my_ little fawn.

His golden eyes widened, and she knew that he, too, had just realized what he'd said.

"Erik?" Her hand seemed to lift of its own accord, moving slowly toward his face. He intercepted her, his long fingers closing around hers like a manacle, his irises flashing in warning.

"I won't," she whispered. "Trust me." She saw the confusion in his eyes, the flicker of panic that gave way to anxious resignation. He relaxed his grip, his hand settling on the back of hers as she moved it higher, closer. Her fingers slid back along his cool jawline, thumb skimming the edge of his mask, and then she found the back of his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

She closed her eyes as her lips sank into his. He emitted a low, strangled sort of moan, his muscles tensing beneath her hand. He did not return the pressure, but neither did he pull away. Still, she did not know what to do next. In her current position, her closed mouth unmoving against his, she would surely run out of breath soon. She would have to pull back.

And then a cool palm came to rest against the base of her head. _Stay_ , it said.

Erik broke the kiss only long enough to breathe before he dragged his bottom lip across hers.

Their mouths joined again, more eager this time, colliding at odd angles at first but gradually falling into a slow, deep, push-pull rhythm that forced the separation of top and bottom lips. Bony fingers burrowed into the hair at the nape of her neck and held her fast as the two of them balanced precariously on the tub edge, seeking refuge in the satisfying exchange of heat and pressure and moisture. Clara felt a warm, crackling mass growing at her center and it urged her on, until she felt so inextricably bound to him that she could not fathom ever pulling away.

But that was exactly what he did.

With a small groan, he slid his lips off of hers, releasing her and straightening until her hand slipped from the back of his neck. He was momentarily rendered speechless, regarding her with open mouth, audible breath, dilated eyes. She stared back, flushed and euphoric.

"Oh, Clara," he whispered. "What have you done?"

She blanched. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Ever since you fell asleep in my arms," he said, "I have tried to stay away. But oh, little fawn, you make that nearly impossible! What must I do to ensure that you go on your holiday and forget about me entirely?"

There it was: that self-preservation, intent on cutting her off at unpredictable junctures. But she had overcome it before, and she was determined to do so again.

"What makes you think that I could possibly forget about you, about everything we have shared, over the course of one summer?" she challenged him. "Erik, I think…" Oh, God, she was not really going to say it, was she?

She cleared her throat. "I think that I am falling in love with you."

There was a pregnant pause, and then the most awful, heart-wrenching sound escaped the back of his throat, a cross between a moan and a desolate wail. He leaned forward to bury his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his skull like talons, and he began to shake his head fervently. "No," he moaned. "It is not possible. Erik cannot be loved."

Not for the first time that week, her heart broke for him. She rose, leaving the edge of the bathtub to stand before him, and gently lifted his chin so that he was forced to look at her. "I do not know what has happened to you in this life to make you believe that," she said, "but you are mistaken." She drew closer, wedging herself between his razor-edged knees, and trailed her hands over his shoulders.

She felt those shoulders slump, and as his lanky arms encircled her waist to pull her in, their mouths found each other once more. His lips worked against hers with quiet resignation for all of three seconds before he pushed her away and shot to his feet.

"No!" he cried sharply, bearing down on her. "That is precisely the point! Once you _do_ know, once you see it, you will not come back! You will want to flee just as she did!"

"See _what_ , Erik?"

"This accursed _face_!" he snarled. With a swipe of his hand, both his mask and his full head of hair came off, and with a small gasp she found herself facing a corpse with glowing eyes.

His face was constructed of sallow, tight skin, with sunken cheeks and chasmal eye sockets that housed those beads of amber light deep within their recesses. His head was bare, save for maybe four strands of dark hair that sprouted from an ashen scalp, sweeping just over his forehead and behind his ears.

Most disquieting, however, was the absence of nose. There was bone or cartilage at the top to suggest the bridge of one, and at the base of the cavity were traces of a septum that bisected the space, but otherwise it was a black hole that she stared into at the center of his features.

Clara had often lain awake at night wondering what could lead a man to hide his face so acutely, but never had her imagination conjured up something this terrifying.

She drew back and collided with the sink behind her. The drinking glass toppled off its edge and onto the floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces, and it seemed as though she could hear each individual _plink_ echoing loudly in that cavernous silence.

"Ah," he intoned, tossing mask and wig to the ground. "Not so resolute now, are we?" His voice had somehow been whittled down to shreds, so uncharacteristically gruff of him, and the transformation made her quake. Tears began to slip down her cheeks.

Erik cocked his head. "Why do you cry, little fawn?" he asked, his tone suddenly mocking her. "Is it out of terror, or out of pity?" And then he advanced on her, leaning forward with his head still tilted, until his visage of death was a mere breath away from her own face. "You had best get out," he growled, "for I have no patience for either."

Later she would come to play this interaction over and over again in her mind, to wish that her brain had formulated a more appropriate response. But she was still Clara, and so she did what came naturally to her in that moment.

She ran.

By foot, by boat, and then by horse she fled the man whom she might have loved, fled his refined underground prison. She did not stop running—or sobbing—until she reached the sanctuary of her own bed. She spent the remaining small hours of the morning sprawled atop the covers, with her tangled hair fanned out across the pillow and her bodice still unbuttoned at the collar, staring up at the ceiling through sore and reddened eyes.

In the end, that was exactly how the maid found her at dawn, when the carriage pulled up that would take her away to the coast.


	16. Post

A/N: Apologies for the shorter chapter length, but this week has been an ordeal and tomorrow is my biiirthdaaay! I will return next week with a longer update. In the meantime, do let me know your thoughts on this one. :) A Hamilton reference may have snuck its way in...

* * *

 _20 June 1882_

Dearest Erik,

I hope that this letter finds you by way of Nadir, and that you have deigned to open it before subjecting it to a fiery death. Please, please do me the courtesy of reading until the end. But since I cannot guarantee that you will finish the letter, I feel I must come right out with its purpose: to tell you that, in spite of our regrettable parting moments, my feelings for you remain unchanged.

Is that clear enough, you inordinately stubborn man? Your attempts to frighten me away have failed once more, and the only thing stopping me from showing up at your doorstep is the temporary distance between us.

I know that my actions must have indicated everything to the contrary, but you scared me, Erik! Not just with your abrupt unmasking, but also with your sudden malice!

I am ashamed of how I reacted, certainly. I hate that I fled at such a vulnerable moment, and I have spent many hours and tears lamenting this fact. But can you truly blame me for responding as I did?

No, you cannot, and I will tell you why: because it happened of your own design. You were so convinced of my inevitable reaction to your appearance that you sought to force it and spare yourself the wait. Spook the little fawn while her guard is down, and see how she runs!

But that is hardly fair. How could you be so certain that, had you exposed your secret gradually, with tenderness and understanding, it would not have been met with the same kindness? You do me a great disservice by assuming otherwise.

It has taken me some time to realize exactly what happened. You led me into a trap, and I took the bait. You are too clever for me, my dear Erik, but that is one of the reasons why I admire you so.

When we are able to see each other again, let me prove to you my resolve. Show me your face again, and I will stay. Or, alternatively, tell me that I shall never see your face again—but just _be there_ , and I will stay.

In the meantime, please do write, if only to acknowledge your receipt of this letter. Also, I shall remind you that, as of the peony discovery, I am owed a new challenge.

Yours,

Clara

P.S. Since I can only assume that you are now acting irritably toward Nadir without explanation, I have given him a bare-bones account of our parting: I saw your face, I acted regrettably, and I wish to make amends. You may elaborate as you see fit. I am ashamed of my reaction but not of anything leading up to it.

* * *

 _27 June 1882_

Dear Erik,

It hurts not to hear from you, I admit, but you are entitled to your emotions. In the meantime, I will keep writing.

Aunt Céleste did not accompany us to the summer home this year. She is at her daughter's home in Rouen, awaiting the birth of her third grandchild. This arrangement was made shortly before Margot's death, and I suspect that she feels guilty for leaving me to my own devices. Father is present only in the evening, and even then he will occasionally vanish for days at a time.

It is a lonely summer, in the end, but that is perhaps for the best. Anyone else's company pales in comparison to yours.

In a place where I have established so many fond memories and traditions with my sister, it is difficult to be without her. But it is healing, too; there is a cleansing power in the salt spray of the sea and in the sweeping wind that carries it. I have spent much of my time out of doors, often—horror of horrors!—without a parasol. It seems I have developed freckles on my nose. Freckles! Aunt Céleste will be scandalized, but I have taken a liking to them.

I have also played piano, perhaps to excess. You were right, Erik; when I sit at the keys, unprompted, my hands know exactly what will soothe my soul. Unfortunately, it has been the _Moonlight Sonata_ rather often of late, which I imagine makes for a gloomy atmosphere for the household staff, even in this sunny locale. Ah, well. I am trying to adopt your nonchalance and remind myself that "the body wants to play what it wants to play."

Unfortunately, it is still left wanting. Please offer it some hope of solace, Erik. Only a word from you, and this agonizing tension would melt away.

Yours,

Clara

P.S. I remind you once more to be nice to Nadir. And the next time you see him, please do me a favor and take him some macarons.

No, on second thought, I will just have some delivered to him.

* * *

 _3 July 1882_

My dear Clara,

I am so very grateful for your correspondence. Erik has been near intolerable these past few weeks. Even his home is in disarray; the surfaces are littered with empty drinking-glasses, a layer of dust has settled onto the furniture, and the peonies on the dining-room table have been left to die.

I could only surmise that something had happened between the two of you, but until your first letter, I was left in the dark.

You may find it difficult to believe, but Erik was once quite expressive of his innermost thoughts and feelings. Since his one and only encounter with heartbreak last year, however, he has withdrawn further and further into himself. The poor man has not had any of the brushes with heartache that so many of us have experienced in our youth, and he quite literally expected to die of it. He went so far as to bequeath some personal effects to me and make burial arrangements. I confess, I was not as sympathetic as I could have been. I, and others, had very nearly died as a result of his careless selfishness.

I remember with startling clarity when, some weeks later, he showed up at my doorstep to inform me that he could not seem to die.

"Then don't," I told him. "Perhaps there is a reason you are still alive." I suggested that he might even atone for his misdeeds in life. He shrugged it off, dismissing me as a "bleeding-heart fool," and that seemed to be that.

Something changed in him, though. Though he was but a pitiable shell of his former self, he developed more of an evenness in temper. But with it came a sort of restlessness, a plague of nighttime wandering that was never satiated.

Until you, of course.

It pains me to see you both in distress, and I shall do what I can to facilitate a reconciliation. For now, I have given him your letters, though I cannot say whether he has actually read them. I am afraid that we do not speak of you, at his behest, and I am inclined to respect his wishes for the time being.

If his agitation is anything to measure by, however, you can rest assured that you are missed.

All my best,

Nadir Khan

P.S. Macarons! You angelic woman, you.

* * *

 _9 July 1882_

Dear Erik,

I have a new indulgence.

Sometimes, when my father is away, I give the staff the night off. I raid the kitchen—and occasionally even prepare something!—for a small picnic supper, and I sneak a bottle of wine from the cellar. Then I take my provisions down to the beach, where I spread out a blanket and remain until well past sunset, watching the waves catch the moon rays as I burrow my toes into the sand. Yes, scandal of all scandals, I have begun to shed my shoes and stockings when no one is around!

It is utterly sublime. I can think of few things in life that arouse such delight in every one of my senses.

It also serves to underscore the stale and structured monotony that awaits me upon my return to Paris. My mourning period will end shortly thereafter, and I will be expected to return to all of the societal goings-on that I have come to loathe. How will I ever face them again without Margot at my side?

Please write. Even if it is just to curse my name, write so that I may know that you have read my letters and that you are safe. This uncertainty is hardly bearable.

With love,

Clara

* * *

 _17 July 1882_

Erik,

You have forced me to take drastic measures.

Do you recall when I expressed interest in borrowing your well-worn copy of _Les Fleurs du Mal_? I had seen you flipping through the volume of poetry so many times that I could not help but be curious. But you, ever patronizing, responded with a grim chuckle and an assertion that "You are not ready for Baudelaire, little fawn."

Well. Guess who now has access to an original copy of that work? You see, it turns out that my father, like you, has the 1857 edition containing the six poems that have since been banned from subsequent publications for being an offense against public decency. (I am as surprised as you might be, but since there is no evidence of the book having even been opened, let alone read in its entirety, I suspect that my father has no knowledge of the potentially indecent material housed in his study.)

If you do not re-establish contact, then I shall be forced to commence my introduction to Baudelaire without your guidance and discussion. Could you live with yourself then, Erik?

Yours,

Clara

* * *

 _25 July 1882_

Clara,

I fear I have done something terrible.

You see, I had grown weary of Erik's misery. It was pure selfishness that prompted me to pepper him with questions, over time, regarding what transpired between the two of you. I finally lost my temper a few nights ago as he sat despondently on my sofa doing that ridiculous coin-roll across his knuckles; I demanded that he tell me what, precisely, about the situation was so terrible that he could not give you a second chance. And do you know what he said, with the utmost stoicism?

"She kissed me, daroga, and told me that she loved me."

Oh, my dear girl. I fear now that I have not shown you as much sympathy as you deserve. How forsaken you must feel, to have bared your feelings only to be met with such hostility, to wind up alone by the sea with that knowledge weighing on your heart. That you continue to try and make amends is a remarkable act of courage.

And Erik, of all people, ought to understand that sting of rejection.

I told him as much, Clara. But even through my disappointment, I must forgive him. You see, he simply does not believe himself worthy of your affections.

"Erik," I said, "have you considered that atonement might come more easily to you from a place of contentment rather than out of abject misery?"

The coin vanished, and he looked up at me but did not respond. So I added, "Perhaps it is time to allow yourself to be happy."

He simply stared at me. I wish I could have seen his eyes in that moment, to guess what he was thinking, but the lights in my flat were too bright.

Finally, he stood. "Ah, but you have always been soft, daroga," he said. Then he collected his hat and slipped out into the night.

I have not heard from nor seen him since. His home is dark and its contents untouched, save one item that is noticeably absent: his violin.

I pray that he has not done something rash. You and I ground him, Clara, and I worry about what he might do outside of our influence. If you happen to hear from him, please do inform me. And let him know that, quite frankly, I am too old for this nonsense.

All my best,

Nadir

* * *

 _26 July 1882_

My freckled little fawn,

Upon pain of death, do not so much as TOUCH the Baudelaire without further instruction.

A query for you, then: How does a man hide underground where there is no underground?

Ever your obedient servant,

E.


	17. Sanctuary

A/N: Thank you for the lovely birthday wishes and reviews! They got me moving on this chapter and totally made my weekend. Not quite as much as the cake did, but close. ;)

* * *

At first, she had not intended to write to Erik at all.

No, Clara had quickly resigned herself to avoiding him forever, coward that she was, under the assumption that he would never want to see her again. She fell into a slogging depression that was only deepened by the renewed grief she felt upon entering the family's summer home without Margot.

But it was Margot, in the end, who pulled Clara back out of that sinkhole: rather, her memory, and the promise that Clara had made to forge ahead for the both of them. Margot would have pulled herself together, evaluated the situation, and formulated a plan, so that was what Clara resolved to do, too. And the more she replayed in her mind what had transpired, the more frustrated she became with Erik, until finally she took to pen and paper to let him know just how she felt.

Thus began her summer of solitary confinement and desperate wheedling. She meant what she said, though, when she wrote Erik that it was not all bad. It was easy enough to amuse herself, especially now that her newfound lock-picking skills granted her unfettered access to the books in her father's study.

For all he had overlooked the Baudelaire, her father was actually quite a well-read man, and in his seaside office she found volumes of Zola and Verne, Tennyson and Byron, Dickens and Dostoyevsky. They were daunting at first, but once she grew accustomed to the wonderful things about them—their reflections of human nature, their feats of aestheticism, their transcendence of time and place—well, how could she ever read anything else?

When she was not reading or playing piano, she sewed and embroidered. She wrote letters to her cousins. She helped the puzzled cook make a fruit tart, then a cake. She missed Erik terribly; she missed Margot terribly. But she was surviving.

Still, each unanswered letter that she sent out contained a tiny part of herself that was not restored. And then came Nadir's warning letter: Erik had vanished.

Clara spent the rest of the day on edge, pacing her quarters and wringing her hands, wondering what his flight could possibly mean. She vacillated wildly between worry and a growing desire to curse the man and his inscrutable ways. She barely slept, awake until the early hours of the morning, but that was hardly different from the usual. Erik or no, she still found herself up and about in the night.

It was with bleary eyes that she dragged herself to the breakfast table late the following morning, seeking coffee's warm and loving embrace. To her surprise, her father had taken up residence at one end, sipping tea with a newspaper spread out before him.

"Good morning, Clara," he said, peering coolly over his spectacles. "Or nearly good afternoon, I should say. The servants tell me you often sleep this late."

She smoothed her skirts beneath her as she took a seat opposite him. "A recent habit, I'm afraid. I have had trouble falling asleep at night since—" She paused. "Since March."

A small jump of his Adam's apple told her that he knew what she was referring to. "A pity, that," he replied hoarsely before returning to his newspaper. She turned her attentions to coffee and breakfast.

She was always attuned to the arrival of the mail tray, but she was especially eager today given the nature of Nadir's letter the day before. Therefore, when the butler entered bearing a single letter, she spotted the handwriting before he even made it across the room.

It was red.

Her fork fell to her plate with a clatter. Henri glanced up from his paper, and she quickly retrieved the utensil, downplaying her reaction as a clumsy slip. He resumed reading.

Clara managed to snatch up the missive from the mail tray before the butler even came to a halt. "Please excuse me," she said to her father as she rose from her chair. "I have been expecting correspondence pertaining to a dress order for some time, and I should like to respond promptly."

It had been Margot who first took advantage of their father's obvious discomfort—or, at best, disinterest—around what he termed "womanly concerns," skillfully weaving said concerns into the frequent talking-tos she received from Henri so that he might end the lecture in an attempt to be rid of her. It was just as effective now as it ever was; he mumbled his assent and waved her off without his gaze ever leaving the newspaper.

Clara barely managed to close the door to the bedroom, her back resting against it, before she broke the seal with trembling fingers. Erik's spidery penmanship unfolded before her.

She read his note, sank to the floor, and pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a lone sob of relief.

He was coming. She was still his little fawn, and he was coming to her, and she must...what? Figure out where he intended to stay, or help him find such a location? For, indeed, there was no labyrinthine underground for him here by the sea.

And then, true to her word, she would have to look upon his face once more.

* * *

It was possibly the longest afternoon of her life.

She deliberated, certainly. She had some ideas about where she might hide him. But all she could do now was wait for him to come to her, and he would not dare approach in the daylight.

Just before supper she escaped the confines of the house for a walk. It was quite warm, but the wind was crisp and salty and invigorating. She paced the shell-studded beach, heading west down the coastline, until she saw what made her stop dead in her tracks.

There was a sandcastle on the beach.

And oh, it was no ordinary sandcastle. It looked like a miniature replica of a _real_ one, with soaring towers, dotted here and there with turrets and gables and parapets, each detail smoothly and painstakingly crafted to scale. A moat snaked around the entire perimeter, disrupted only by a footbridge. The entire creation was elevated atop sand that had been sculpted to look like rocky cliffs. It was so perfect, so breathtaking, that it could only have been shaped by a sculptor...or perhaps an architect.

She would not need to hide Erik. He was already here.

More than that, she was clearly meant to find him. And now that she knew he was nearby, his clue— _underground where there is no underground_ —left her with little doubt as to where he could be. Oh, he was so, so close. She shivered with anticipation.

The location in question, though, was farther down the beach and accessible only at low tide. It was currently just after high tide, meaning that particular segment of the shore would be flooded with water and therefore impassable. She would have to wait another six hours, until just after midnight. She thought she might explode.

She endured a quiet supper with her father, read the same sentence of her book over and over again, and began three drafts of a letter to Nadir before deciding she ought to lay eyes upon Erik before sending a report to the daroga. And then finally, _finally_ , she evaluated the receding waters from her balcony and determined that she could leave.

She rushed down the stairs and flitted past the drawing-room. She ought to have noticed that its light was on, but it was only her father's voice that snapped her out of her reverie. "Clara? Where are you headed this time of night?"

Her shoes came to a halt on the glossy parquet with an audible squeak. She made a slow, reluctant reversal to the drawing-room, where Henri sat watching her from a tall wingback chair. A half-full tumbler of amber liquor and a fresh cigar sat on the small table beside him. An absence of reading material indicated that he had been doing little more than sitting alone in the room.

"I thought I might take a walk on the beach," she replied.

He frowned. "Insomnia again?"

"Yes."

"Well, I cannot say that I approve of your going out on your own at night. How about I accompany you?"

"No," she said, perhaps too quickly, but she could not let him see the sandcastle. "No, do not get up on my account. I shall find something else to keep me preoccupied. Perhaps some warm milk or chamomile tea from the kitchen will do me some good."

He blinked at her, his expression inscrutable. "All right," he said. "Good night, then."

She moved to go back the way she had come. There was no chance of going out now, not when the only means of going outside was to pass the drawing-room. She would have to wait until tomorrow.

"Clara."

She turned around. "Yes, father?

He picked up the cigar, rolling it back and forth in his fingers as he avoided her gaze. "I know this is hardly my area of expertise," he said, "but with your aunt Céleste away and all…" He trailed off and then set down the cigar with apparent resolve, lifting his head to look at her. "What I mean to say is, you can come to me if you ever need to...talk." He swallowed.

For a moment she could only stare. "Thank you," she finally said. "I will keep that in mind." And then she went up to bed, trying hard not to think about what would happen if or when she could no longer keep Erik separate from her family life.

* * *

Clara woke practically buzzing with nervous excitement the following morning. Low tide would be around lunchtime, and though she preferred the cover of darkness for her exploits with Erik, it would be relatively easy to get to him with her father out for the day, as was his routine.

When she found him at the breakfast table again, however, it became clear that he intended to break that routine.

"There is a race at the track today," he informed her. "I thought that we might attend together, perhaps do some shopping, watch the boats in the harbor." He smiled. "Assuming you still enjoy that sort of thing. I suppose sailboats are not as interesting to grown women as they are little girls."

"They are," she said, "and I do enjoy them. But, father, we are supposed to be in mourning."

"Clara, it has been four months. A trip into town will do you good."

She bit her lip, wanting to cry. Why did it have to be _now_ that he showed such an interest in her? Her odd behavior over the past few months, easily chalked up to losing her sister, was nothing new. But there was nothing she could think of, short of feigning sudden illness, that would drive him away from her and out of the house. So she agreed, willing herself not to cry into her morning coffee.

In the end, though, the trip _did_ do her good. She did not like the throngs of well-to-do society folk in the nearby resort town of Deauville, but her spirits were lifted by the change of scenery, the excitement of the race—even, to her surprise, by the sudden attentions of her father.

He took her to the harbor after the racecourse, where the two of them watched the boats coming in as they reminisced about much earlier times. He insisted on buying her something at the shops, baffled but thinly satisfied when she chose only a few books. Then he took her out to supper, at a showy restaurant overlooking the water.

By that point, Clara was tired and thinking only of Erik. Their conversation had all but disappeared by the time the food arrived.

"How is the sole?" Henri asked her.

"Quite good," she replied, though she had mostly picked at it thus far. "And the mussels?"

"Superb."

The exchange was followed by further silence. Clara watched her father as he dissected the hinged black shells with a tiny seafood fork. He was bookishly handsome for his age, she supposed. Though his honey-brown hair had begun fading to gray, it still fell thick and soft, with no threat of receding from his brow. He was quietly assertive, and though he struggled with patience at times, it was not unreasonably so. Why had he never remarried?

"Father," she said, "did you love my mother?"

Theirs had been a match made largely of convenience, she knew; Céleste had told her as much. They had courted for six months and were married only fourteen before Alice Toussaint, née Benoit, died in childbirth at the same age Clara was now. It was hardly a recipe for deep-seated love. It seemed a ridiculous question to ask, and she was not exactly certain how or why it slipped out.

It was also, she realized, quite personal—especially for a man completely uninclined to share such details about himself. She felt her face growing warm as her father paused to stare at her, midway through a mouthful of food. He then set down his fork and left her to wait out the uncomfortable silence as he finished chewing and sipped his wine.

"You have scarcely asked about her in twenty-four years," said Henri softly. "Why now, Clara?"

She looked down at her plate, prodding at its contents with fork and knife. "I think about her often of late," she admitted, "and I was always too afraid to question you." _You never wanted to talk about her_ , she wanted to add, but she refrained.

"And what has changed?"

It was a compelling question. She could think of many reasons: she was older and more assertive now; she was used to questioning a man far more intimidating than her father. But she went with the answer that seemed most appropriate at the time. "Margot."

"Ah." He nodded, and now it was he who avoided eye contact. "Well, Clara, your mother and I were not married long, but we did know each other for nearly two decades beforehand."

"Really?" This was news to her.

He looked up, met her wide-eyed stare, and smiled shyly. "Yes, our families were friends. Our parents had always intended for us to marry, but we likely would have anyway." He drank more wine. "She was the sweetest, most docile creature you could ever meet—so obliging, with hardly a cross word for anybody. Much like you, daughter."

That, she did know. It was perhaps no coincidence that she had grown up imitating the qualities that she'd understood to be admired of her mother. "What was it like," she asked, "to be in love?"

Henri's lips parted in mild surprise. "Well, I suppose it is different for everybody," he surmised. He was quiet for a long time, frowning into the pale yellow contents of his wine glass as his fingertip traced the rim. When he finally spoke again, his gaze stayed fixed on the sauvignon blanc. "It was a gratifying calm," he said. "There was a certainty—of trust, of commitment, of attraction—that made it possible to breathe again after that first terrifying whirlwind of romance died down. And then life was no longer about my happiness, but about hers."

"That sounds wonderful," she murmured.

"Mm," he affirmed, chewing another forkful of seafood. He was staring out the window now, somehow into the sea and past it at the same time. "But is it always enough, I wonder?"

She did not know how to answer that, so she flaked the fish apart with her fork and brought it to her lips, trying to ascertain whether she was, in fact, in love.

* * *

Night fell, bringing with it a sharp crescent moon, and this time Henri retired to his quarters early. Clara was able to slip out of the house unseen. With no lantern to be found, she was forced to carry an old brass oil lamp to light her way.

Though there was a smooth stretch of sand directly in front of the house, the shoreline on the Toussaints' property was, for the most part, rocky. Moving west, the expanse of rocky sand thinned out as the abutting land gradually sloped upward into a set of low, jagged cliffs that jutted directly out into the sea at high tide.

At low tide, however, one could walk in front of the cliff edges. Even farther west, near the edge of the family's landholdings, there was a recession in the face of the cliff. And in that recession, at the top of a short and rocky incline, was a cave. She and Margot must have spent dozens, possibly hundreds, of hours there over the course of their youth.

Vegetation grew so thick atop the rock formations that it would have been easy to argue that the clifftops were a surface—in which case, the cave was technically underground. Also of note: the roar of the waves here could easily swallow the dulcet croon of a violin.

Clara's heart pounded as she approached the recessed hollow. She had not seen Erik in six weeks. What if things between them were different? Worse, what if she could not tolerate his face as well as she had thought, after she had all but demanded that he show it to her again?

She stumbled up the rocky slope that led to the cave opening. At one point she nearly shattered the lamp against a rock when she slipped, but she emerged with only a scraped knee, climbing to the top without further incident. She could see as soon as she entered the cave that Erik had been here. In the far back was a small suitcase with his violin resting on it, and next to it a pallet on the ground for sleeping.

She walked farther inward. Then the flame in her oil lamp went out, despite the lack of wind inside the cave. It threw the space into utter darkness, and all was silent for a long moment, save for her breathing.

"Clara."

At the sound of his voice behind her, her knees almost gave out. She set the lamp aside and turned to face him. A pair of golden eyes burned bright and beautiful in the dark space between her and the cave entrance; there was an outline of a tall, wiry frame backlit by faint moonlight. Her stomach fluttered, and she could not find the right words to address him.

"Two full days?" he asked, clucking his tongue. "I had expected you sooner."

She nearly smiled through her nervousness. "I was detained."

"I suppose it is fitting that you should arrive now," he conceded, "given that we seem to meet only by starlight."

He stayed where he was. She did the same.

"You read my letters," she said.

"I did."

"And now you are here."

"Your powers of observation are most astute."

"Please don't play games with me, Erik." Her words were quiet but shaky. "I have waited six weeks for this moment."

He must have shuttered his eyes in response, for the amber points of light briefly went out. His voice softened. "And you are certain this is still what you want?"

She took a hesitant step forward. "You would not be here if you suspected otherwise."

He studied her for a moment, and then he moved off to her side. There was a soft _snap_ and a tiny flare of light as he struck a match against the cave wall, and the flame crept down a wick to illuminate a candle in his hand.

He approached slowly. His free hand found hers and lifted it to chest height, where he pressed the candle into her palm and, with the utmost tenderness, curled her fingers around its waxy base. Then his hands traveled up to hover at his mask, shaking almost imperceptibly.

He was placing his fate in her hands, Clara realized. Her reaction had the potential to break him, and he would likely not recover from it again. Her eyes watered at the enormity of his gesture, and at the weight of the responsibility that she now felt.

"Wait," she said, and she reached up to halt one of his hands. "Don't, Erik. I should not have asked this of you, not when it causes you so much anguish."

He closed his fingers gently around hers, pulling them down and away from his face. "You wanted to prove your devotion," he said, "and earn my trust." His calloused thumb traced delicate lines along the skin of her hand. "But you already have it, my Clara. You always have."

"You have a funny way of showing it," she murmured.

"I scarcely realized it myself until recently."

That, she could believe. Why would he not act in the way that had, time and time again, guaranteed his survival? Surely it was instinctive by now.

"But if I do not do this," he went on, "then you will forever doubt my trust." He released her, and his hands rose to his face once more. "I only request that you not ask it of me again."

Her grip on the candle tightened as the mask came off, balanced on pale, thin fingertips.

She had prepared for this moment. She had made herself picture Erik's raw, exposed flesh over and over again, trying to pair the image in her mind with all of the things she adored about him. After all, part of the reason a corpse was so terrifying was simply the knowledge that its owner was dead, was it not? And Erik was so very alive.

 _This is the face of the man who jumped off of a bridge to rescue you_ , she had told herself. _This is the face of the man who bought flowers for your sister's grave and sutured your finger and gave you your own_ boat _, who knows magic tricks and architecture, who has spools of unspoken confidence in you and your abilities._

And now, as he bared himself to her for the second and perhaps final time, she thought, _This is the face of your sanctuary._ It was his presence, not his home, that created the safe space where she could be herself, where she was still learning _how_ to be herself. She could never take that for granted.

The candlelight danced across his sickly complexion and hollow cheekbones; the gaping nose-hole remained dark and unchanged. Her breath hitched; her stomach churned. She quickly sought out his eyes, their soothing glow now fixed on her, and that grounded her. Sanctuary.

Hesitantly, she smiled up at him. "It is good to see you again, Erik."

He let out a soft exhalation of breath, nodded, and slipped the mask back on. Then he reached out to cup the back of her head. "Come here, my little fawn," he said, and he swiftly drew her in, twining fingers into her hair, blowing out the candle in her hand. She let it fall to the ground as his long arms wrapped around her back and shoulders. She returned the embrace in kind, her arms winding tightly about his ribcage.

There they stood, unmoving, for some time. Clara laid her cheek against Erik's shoulder and let the calm wash over her.


	18. A Tale of Two Suitors

A/N: Sorry for the delay! I spent most of last week prepping for and helping to run an event, and I had to map out this story some more. Hope it's worth the wait! Thanks for the gentle prodding in the meantime. Never underestimate the power of pestering me for updates; I need it sometimes. :)

* * *

At some point during the five months of their acquaintance, it had become laughable to Clara that she had once suspected Erik of being a ghost, or an angel, or something equally otherworldly. She had grown accustomed to the fact that he was only a man, albeit one of great secrecy and stunning brilliance—and, she could concede, an air of unearthliness shaped by his skeletal form, his mask, his ventriloquism and disappearing acts.

But now, in this dark seaside cave, she could scarcely believe him to be more than a phantom. Six weeks with no contact, and suddenly he was here amid her childhood memories, trusting her with his greatest secret and shame? It had to be a dream.

It was only when he pulled her against him that she dared to hope. She clung to his sharp, angular frame, feeling bone and wiry muscle, and she drank and drank and drank her fill of him even as her disbelief raged on.

She could feel his heart beating a steady rhythm in the hollows of his chest. She tried not to think about how well she and he fit together, how easily they found each other with enveloping arms in the darkness. Most of all, she tried not to think about how much she ached to feel his mouth on hers again. It had been utterly wanton, the way she had kissed him on the edge of his bathtub. Every time she had thought of it over the summer, her cheeks had colored from equal parts shame and longing.

A proper lady did not _kiss_ a man. But then, she also did not sit with a man unaccompanied, and most certainly not in his home—in his _bathroom_ , no less. She did not sneak out of the house or lie to her elders or clean or cook or break into museums. Surely Clara was destined for Hell?

She thought about the revelers at the masked ball, and about the debauchery to which she had been an uncomfortable witness. This was nothing like that. This was real, and pure, and if God had engineered such a perfect symbiotic relationship to test her devotion, then she was surely going to fail.

She had already become so attuned to Erik's physiology during their embrace that, even though the shift was subtle, she felt it: his heartbeat was picking up speed. Was he reacting to _her_?

She had not thought the man capable of being nervous. The present circumstances were clearly affecting him, though, and it made her feel guilty and unsettled. She finally pulled away and took up his hand instead. She also sought out his eyes, which seemed to sear through her even in darkness. She found herself voicing the ridiculous question that had occurred to her more than once: "Erik, you cannot...see in the dark, can you?"

His fingers twined through hers to form a firmer grip. "I can indeed."

"Oh," she breathed. "All right, then." Perhaps he was still just a man, but he was an utterly extraordinary one.

"Let's talk," she said, and she led him out of the cave and onto the rocky embankment. There was a low, flat boulder wide enough for the two of them, and there they sat, taking a moment to watch the waves lapping at the beach.

"I do not understand," Erik murmured. She glanced over and saw that his gaze had shifted to the hands clasped between them.

"Understand what?"

"How you can...touch me." He was frowning. "How you can stomach it."

"There is nothing repulsive about it," she said, and she felt her cheeks warm as she added, "Quite the contrary."

"Ah," he replied. "I am afraid that my own mother, among others, would disagree with you there." There was no bitterness to his voice, only resignation.

Clara sucked in a sharp breath. Her instinct was to call the woman a heartless fool, but she could imagine no circumstance in which insulting someone else's mother would be considered welcome or productive.

"I'm so sorry, Erik." It was all she could think to say. He nodded, his amber irises piercing the surf below.

She let the quiet flow between them. There were so many things to ask, so many words left unsaid, but she was so relieved to be in his presence that she could not delve that deeply just yet.

"Did you really build a sandcastle?" she asked instead.

He let out a small sigh. "Yes."

"May I watch you make another one?" She grinned, anticipating his irritated reply but still unable to contain herself.

"You may _not_." He was glowering now. "Sand is hardly my preferred medium. But I needed to create, to keep my hands busy. One can only do so much in a cave."

"Speaking of which," she said, "what was your plan for your time here?"

"I have no plan," he replied. Apparently sensing her disbelief, he added, "I left Paris as soon as I decided to come here. Everything else has been contingent upon you since." He looked down at his feet, as though he could not bear to see her reaction. "I did not dare plan further."

She looked down at the hand holding hers and placed her free hand on top of it, cupping his long fingers in her palm. She grazed her thumb along his skin, and he looked up at her now, hopeful.

"Please stay," she entreated. "That is...if you want to."

His grip tightened, and his reply was thick, as though caught in his throat. "Yes."

"All right," she said, smiling shyly. "But you know you cannot spend the summer in a cave. How are you even managing to eat?"

"I have a few provisions. I will try to find another location nearby, perhaps tomorrow, though I have boarded César in town so it will take longer."

"You walked here from town? That must have taken you—"

"About an hour and a half."

"We shall have to do something about that," she said, running through possible options in her head. "In the meantime, perhaps you ought to stay in our attic."

"Out of the question."

"Oh, but no one ever goes in there! In fact, I am not entirely sure that it is free of rodents. Or bats."

"What a compelling sales pitch!"

She sighed. "Erik, I dislike that our meetings are dictated by the tide, and that you are sleeping on a cave floor. What happens if it storms? Or if you run out of provisions? Besides," she added, giving him a sly smile, "I can sneak into the attic much more easily and frequently than I can sneak out of the house. You will be right above my room."

His lips parted, and he looked as though all the breath had been sucked right out of him. Then he exhaled slowly. "Fine," he said. "But I do not intend to stay for long."

Clara grinned and stood, pulling him up with her. "Let's go get your things and head over before the tide comes back in."

* * *

She made Erik wait on the lawn, arms laden with bedroll and suitcase and violin, while she ensured that their path inside was clear, and then she beckoned to him from the front door. It was utterly strange to see him set foot inside her home, but it thrilled her at the same time. She took his violin and his hand and quietly padded up the stairs to the second floor.

She led him to a linen closet near the end of the hall where her room resided. "We ought to get you some clean bedding," she whispered, but he shook his head.

"It would be suspicious," he murmured. "Staff notice these things."

Somewhere in the distance, a door squeaked open.

Before she could even react, Erik had calmly swept her into the closet with him and shut the door.

It was small and shallow, filled almost to capacity with shelves, pressing the two of them together for the second time that night. She had his violin; he carried his suitcase with the bedroll tucked under the same arm; yet still, they were flush against each other. As they waited in tense silence, she could feel his heartbeat picking up speed for the second time that night.

She craned her neck to look up at him and found those golden eyes boring right through her. She stared back, knowing that he could see her but unable to look away. For a long moment it seemed it was only their eyes that existed in that darkness, summer-sky blue and sunset gold, and she knew that whenever those hues collided in the heavens—the brilliant sun-gold searing through the smooth calm of the blue—their meeting was a stunning thing of beauty, a passionate embrace of opposing temperaments that carried on until both sought the cover of darkness, whispering sweet nothings as they dipped below the horizon.

Blue eyes watched and widened as the gold ones grew nearer. Clara suddenly felt the heat of Erik's breath on her face, and then he was _there_ , right there, the tip of the nose-shape in his mask brushing against her nose, and she closed her eyes.

She felt his lips: the softest of touches against her own mouth, a near ghost of a kiss, as though he hardly dared to make contact. She ached for him to apply pressure, but he remained hovering in that same manner for several seconds.

There was a creak in the floorboards down the hall, and then another. Erik's lips slid off of hers, drifting oh-so-lightly along her cheek and jaw until the side of his face came to rest against hers. As the owner of the footsteps drew nearer to their hiding spot, she tried to temper her breathing, which had become more labored in such close proximity to him.

The bottom of the door frame darkened as the interloper paused outside of it. She curled in her fingers so tightly that her nails dug into her palm. And then the figure moved away, back down the hall and toward the stairs. She released the breath she'd been holding.

It was another few minutes before Erik deemed it safe to exit, and even then they strained to be soundless as they crept up the narrow stairway to the attic door. Unable to see in the narrow stairwell, Clara clung to his hand and let him lead.

Moonlight floated in through the attic's two floor-level windows, illuminating the long wooden floorboards and beams that constituted the vast space. She had not been up here in years, and she was surprised to find one corner of the otherwise empty room cluttered with objects from her childhood and Margot's: furniture, mostly, but also a wooden rocking horse and some crates of books and toys. Perhaps the items had been saved in anticipation of her father remarrying, but the layer of dust coating them indicated that they had long since been forgotten.

"Put your things wherever you would like," she told Erik. "Perhaps away from the windows."

"Of course." He moved to a dark far corner and set down his suitcase; she followed in order to relinquish his violin.

She watched as he removed his tailcoat, which he draped over a low beam, and as he set his hat atop the suitcase. Then he unfurled the bedroll. There was a confession gnawing at her mind now, something—rather, some _one_ —that she had yet to disclose in the wake of all of the excitement that night.

"Erik?" Her voice was thin. He made a sound of acknowledgement but continued to arrange his things, and she forced herself to continue. "There is a matter of some importance that I left out of my letters. It did not feel appropriate to address them in writing, but now…" She paused.

He looked up from where he was positioned with one knee on the floor. "Tell me."

"I believe I might have a suitor."

The ensuing silence was almost unbearable.

Finally, Erik rose, his long legs unfolding beneath him until his glowing eyes leered down at her from atop the bridge of the mask-nose. "What is his name?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"It hardly matters," she insisted. "I am not interested in him."

His hand shot out to encircle her wrist. "His _name_ , Clara! Tell me his name!"

"Do keep your voice down!" she admonished, stunned by his mounting reaction. She yanked her arm away. "You will not bully me into telling you, Erik. As I said, I have no interest; I am simply trying to be forthcoming with you. I do not want it to change things between us."

His fingers raked erratically through the dark brown hair of his wig. "How did this happen?" he demanded to know.

She told him the truth about Isaac Verne: that, up until recently, she had seen the man only a few times, at her father's invitation. That he was a pleasant enough dinner companion but otherwise of no consequence. But, as it turned out, M. Verne was on holiday less than an hour's ride from the Toussaints' summer home, and he was quite interested in the weekly dinners that Henri had suggested. This week, moreover, he had requested that Clara give him a tour of the grounds.

Erik followed every detail with rapt attention. "And do you intend to keep seeing him?"

"Well, no," she said, "but I can hardly keep him from coming to dinner when he has not yet expressed any intention of sorts."

"I can," he growled.

"You will _not_ ," she said. "I will think of something. Give me time."

The truth was that she _had_ thought about it, quite extensively. She had already played out the entire scenario in her head; Margot had certainly had enough admirers to expose a pattern. M. Verne's visits would increase in frequency; there would be "chance" meetings at church. Once the mourning period ended, she would start receiving invitations to soirées and balls hosted by mutual friends, where his name would populate her dance card—assuming she let things go that far.

He was a kind man, Isaac Verne, but even under the assumption that she would never see Erik again, her soul had rejected the notion of an intimate relationship with him as surely as one's body rejected poison.

Whether it came before or after a marriage proposal, however, it was assured that Clara, ever the obedient daughter these last twenty-four years, would have to commit that most heinous act of filial betrayal and inform her father that she had rejected the future husband whom he had hand-picked for her.

Her father, she surmised, was too proud to have a spinster for a daughter and would likely see to it that she devoted her life to religion instead: perhaps the only other respectable outcome for a young woman of her rank. She imagined that there were many things worse than a convent, but as a nun, she would be an impostor. It would be impossible to devote herself fully to the Lord when she had left a piece of her heart below the Paris Opera.

Now that Erik was back in her life...well, the future was fuzzier, and possibly even more tumultuous. Clara had not let herself contemplate it yet, not even dared to hope that he would be a part of it.

She did not tell him any of this.

Instead, she honed in on a piece of potentially new information. "Erik," she asked timidly, "do you mean to imply that _you_ are expressing some intention?"

He was still glowering. "I should think that would be patently obvious."

Oh, that man and his insufferable ego. "That is hardly true, and you know it!" she said. Tears began to form in the corners of her eyelids, and she wished that, just once, she could express emotion without dissolving into tears. Sadness, anger, fear: all invoked her body's betrayal, and this was certainly no exception. "Six weeks, Erik! Six weeks without a single word, in which you let me believe that you never wanted to see me again! What else was I to think?"

The crackling tension in his body seemed to dissipate with every word she spoke, to the point where his shoulders slumped and his rigid expression dissolved into utter helplessness. "Yes," he said, staring at her feet. His fingers toyed with the buttons on his waistcoat. "Yes, you are right. I was a coward, Clara, and I beg your forgiveness."

She remembered Nadir's written insight: _he simply does not believe himself worthy of your affection._ It was hardly selfishness that had kept him away, in the end. She sighed and moved in to wrap her arms around him once more, smiling when he returned the gesture.

"I do not deserve you," he murmured into her hair.

She squeezed him harder. "You deserve all of the happiness that you were denied through no fault of your own."

"Clara—"

"I am not referring to the unhappiness of your own doing," she clarified, pulling back to wag a stern finger at him. "That is entirely on you. And you ought to start with a letter to Nadir as a preventive measure, because he is liable to give up on you after your latest stunt."

He snorted. "Unlikely."

"He says he is too old for this nonsense."

"Ha!" Erik knelt on the floor to finish straightening the bedroll. "Do not let him fool you, Clara; the daroga is stronger than he looks. I have no doubt that he could head up a police force again if needed. He is merely trying to wheedle macarons out of you."

She could not help but smile. "Regardless, I will bring you pen and paper tomorrow. Some books and food, too. But for now, I ought to get to bed." She hesitated, grasping for the appropriate parting words or gesture for this sort of situation.

Erik rose to the occasion, though, and quite literally; in an instant he was on his feet and towering over her once more. "Thank you," he said. He cupped her face in both hands, an errant thumb stroking her cheek, and her heart thudded in anticipation of a more thorough kiss this time.

Instead, he pressed his lips to her brow and murmured, "Sweet dreams, little fawn."

"Goodnight, Erik," she whispered.

It was with great reluctance that she dragged herself away from him, closing the door to the attic behind her and feeling her way down the stairs. The thought of him resting under the same roof filled her with a sort of bubbling warmth, and she was not even sure she would be able to sleep. It was the same kind of anticipation she had felt as a child on Christmas Eve, only so, so much better.

Thus it was with a dreamy smile that she hopped from the bottom step onto the second-story floorboards to find herself face to face with her father, who stood staring at her expectantly in his dressing-gown and nightcap. His cornflower blue eyes flashed in warning.

"Who were you talking to, Clara?"


	19. Hair

A/N: Geeez, fine, I get it: cliffhangers not appreciated! ;) Here's an early update to make up for it. Still...I REGRET NOTHING. *runs away*

* * *

"Who were you talking to, Clara?"

She parted her lips to respond, but her mind blanked. She was not prepared for this. She had no excuse, did not want to lie, but it was too soon to conceive of her father finding out about Erik.

"Three nights," Henri continued. "Three nights in a row I find you out of your bed!"

Her eyes widened. "Last night—?"

"Yes, I woke in the small hours of the morning and heard you slipping into your room. I have wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, to believe that this was nothing more than insomnia, but now to hear you murmuring to someone in the attic?" He looked utterly crushed, his blue eyes large and frantic behind his spectacles. "Tell me...is it a man?"

Her mouth had gone dry. "It—I—"

"Never mind," he said gruffly. "I will find out for myself." He pushed past her and up the staircase.

"Father, wait!" She spun to follow him, lifting her skirts as she scrambled up the steps in the dark. He thundered ahead, and there was a loud _bang_ as the attic door collided with the wall.

She stumbled out into the moonlit loft behind her father. He stood still as he surveyed the room, and she followed his gaze.

It was as though Erik had never been there. His belongings had vanished, and he was nowhere to be seen. But there was still a cluster of boxes and furniture in one corner, and her father made a beeline for it. She all but stopped breathing as he circled the child-sized chairs, the rocking horse and tiny chest of drawers, the small brass bed that had once adorned her room. She could see his frustration mounting with every passing second in which he failed to unearth a trespasser.

He got down on one knee to peer under the bed, and she thought that surely she and Erik were done for—but then he was back on his feet, unsatisfied and empty-handed. He brought his fingers to his temple and let out a hiss of air as he stared down at the bed.

Frozen in place, Clara could only watch him. Where was Erik? What could she even say?

Then something in Henri softened. His face and body slackened, and he lowered himself onto the bed as he lifted an object from the mattress: a doll.

He clutched its soft torso, clothed in red gingham, and ran the pad of his thumb over its white porcelain face, its dingy brown hair. It had belonged to Margot, and Clara was almost certain that it had not been there earlier.

"Oh, Clara," he breathed. He now held the doll with both hands in his lap, and he looked down at it as he spoke. "I do not want to deter you from talking to your sister, not if it helps, but…" His voice choked, and he stopped himself.

She nearly collapsed in relief. He had not heard anyone speaking _to her_ ; he thought she had been talking to Margot! And then she was squeezing her eyes shut against fresh tears, tears born of guilt and sadness. Only a few months ago she had yearned to connect with her father over their shared loss, and now that he was showing cracks in his foundation, reaching out to her, she felt as though she was taking advantage.

Henri emitted another choking sound, this one decidedly more like a sob that he muffled by pressing his face into the doll's soft center, and then there was no question of what to do next.

She was at his side in an instant. "Papa," she whimpered, her first utterance of that endearment in over a decade. He had since swallowed whatever torrent of emotion had threatened to spill out, but still he reached out to pull her into his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of cigar smoke and shaving soap. The embrace loosened at her core a long-suppressed urge to crawl back to the safe comfort of her childhood and curl up there forever.

"I am so sorry," he whispered, his palm heavy on the back of her head. "Oh, my dear, how long I have been running from this agony. I fear that I have abandoned you in the process. I should have been there for your birthday. _Her_ birthday."

Well. She could not argue with that. "You are here now," she replied instead. "I suppose we must all deal with grief in our own ways."

"Regardless, it should not be at the expense of another."

His words knocked the wind out of her. Was she pursuing these clandestine meetings with Erik at her father's expense? It had been so easy to keep the two men separate in her head when she had hardly seen the latter.

"Father, I—" She stopped, hesitating. How could she describe her relationship with Erik when even _she_ did not quite understand it yet? A seaside embrace after six weeks of no contact, and an almost-kiss in a linen closet: such things hardly constituted courtship. The timing felt wrong; the setting felt wrong. She would go with her first instinct.

Henri squeezed her hand, a gentle prod. "What is it, Clara?"

She forced herself to look up at him and eke out a tiny smile. "I am tired," she said. "I should like to go to bed now." He nodded and rose to his feet, offering a hand to help her up off the small mattress.

On their way to the door, she risked a glance upward. The rafters were high, almost entirely in shadow, but she spied what anyone else might have mistaken for a trick of the moonlight: two dim yellow orbs, stalking her from among the lofted beams.

* * *

In the morning Clara rang for breakfast in bed, feigning a headache. She was too emotionally drained to face her father for the time being and also short on ways to siphon off food for Erik. She played up her appetite and, when she was alone, slipped half the contents of the breakfast tray into the bottom drawer of her writing desk.

Afterward, she forced herself to dress and go downstairs, knowing that the staff would tidy the second-floor bedrooms and bathrooms once she did. She needed them finished and out of the way before she could hazard a visit to the attic.

Blessedly, her father had left for the day. She contented herself with piano practice, careful not to let it surpass an hour should Erik be able to hear. She wrote a well-meaning but distracted letter to her aunt, went for a walk, lunched, read. It was hardly different from a normal day, but the addition of the man in her attic now rendered unbearable any activity that did not directly involve him.

It was nearly late afternoon by the time she snuck up to him with a tray of edibles and books and tea. She was surprised to find him on the floor in front of a canary-yellow dollhouse, reattaching a battered facade that had long ago fallen off its hinges. His tailcoat was off, his white shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, and he did not so much as glance up at her as she set down the tray and delicately crossed the room, careful not to make a sound.

"So certain it was me this time?" she asked.

He frowned at the wood paneling before him, apparently dissatisfied with its progress. "I know your gait," he replied. "The rustle of your skirts, the sound of your shoes." Her cheeks flushed, though she could hardly explain why. She found herself noticing his trim black waistcoat, the fact that the vest further emphasized the thinness of his frame and that she did not mind it one bit.

"The phrasing in your sonatina needs work," he observed, still not looking up.

"I am sure that everything needs work," she said. "I wish you could give me lessons again."

The last of the hinges slid into place, and he swung the facade of the dollhouse to a close, snapping it shut. Then he got to his feet, brushing the dust off his trousers before he moved to stand next to her, his arms akimbo in a magnificent display of pale forearm and elbow. "As do I," he told her softly. She decided that she liked craftsman Erik very, very much.

And then he was off to the breakfast tray like a shot, navigating the floorboards without so much as a creak. He ignored the meal and picked up the handful of books she'd brought, grunting impatiently as he rifled through each one. "No, no, this will not do," he muttered, and he returned them to the tray. There was something odd about his demeanor, his mind and body practically thrumming with restless energy.

She eyed him warily. "Are you...all right?"

He glanced up in surprise, as though only just remembering that she was there. "Ah! Yes! Yes." He frowned. "Well, no. I regret to say that I must make a return trip to Paris as soon as possible." He crossed the room yet again, this time to his suitcase, which had reappeared in the corner.

"But you only just arrived!" Clara protested, feeling every muscle in her body tighten.

"Arrived without a plan," he reminded her. He withdrew what appeared to be a shoe brush and a small jar of polish from his luggage. "It was foolish and reckless, and I do not aim to repeat last night's events."

She knew that he was referring to the incident with her father, but his words wounded her nonetheless. "Are you so eager to leave already?" she bit out.

Erik had now made his way over to the child-sized bed, where he sat, propped his left ankle up on his right knee, and began scraping the brush against his black leather shoe. "I admit that I am struggling, yes," he conceded, his candor making the reply all the more painful for her. "But it has nothing to do with you, my Clara, and everything to do with my lack of a proper outlet." He switched to the other shoe.

"An outlet?"

"I cannot play music here," he explained, pausing to glance up at her. "Without music, without a physical means of release, I grow too restless. Sometimes dangerously so." It was daylight, but she did not need to see his glowing eyes to know that he was skewering her with a cautionary gaze.

"But we have had so little time together!" She knew she sounded childish, that she may as well pout at him for all the maturity she was displaying, and she hated herself for it.

He set the shoe brush on the floor and picked up the jar of polish. "Look at me, Clara!" he said. "I have not walked anywhere today. I am polishing my shoes as an act of desperation!"

"Oh," she intoned, with mild surprise. "I just assumed you that were prone to excessive polishing. Your shoes always look impeccable."

"Well, perhaps, but that is hardly the point," he grumbled. "Besides, I need provisions, I need to speak with the daroga, and I have unresolved business to attend to. Most of all, I need to _not be in your attic_."

She was trying very hard not to pout now. "One more night," she pleaded.

"Your father will be on high alert," he replied. "It is too risky for you to come up here." He was right, she knew. But she would not be parted from him so easily this time, and so she voiced the only other option that she could think of, as brazen as it was.

"Then come to me."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, blinking at her.

"My room is right below these windows. I have a balcony."

He swallowed. "Clara, I do not think—"

"Do not act as though you have never done this before," she teased, alluding to the night when he came through her window to collect his ring. And that gave her pause—what had become of that ring, she wondered? Was it as meaningful to him now as it was then?

He brought his fingertips to his temple, and though he gave the impression of agitated contemplation, she knew, selfishly, that she had him. She sat beside him on the bed, the discarded doll flanking her opposite side. He watched as she picked it up and toyed with the frayed hem of its red gingham frock.

"You put this here for my father to find," she said. It was not a question, but he nodded regardless. "How did you know it was Margot's?"

"Deduction," he replied. "There was a second doll in the crate, with a blue dress."

She smiled wanly. "How quickly you manage to think and act," she commended, and she bent over to set the doll back in its box before facing him. "I apologize for last night. You were all too aware of the risk, and I ignored it."

"I was all too aware of the risk, and I took it."

Erik set down the shoe polish and brush, and then he rose to stand before her. "Understand this, little fawn," he said soberly. "If you wish to keep our acquaintance under wraps, then there will be risk involved every time we see each other. Is that something that you can live with?"

She took a deep breath. "Yes." A pause. "You?"

"I have never lived any other way."

His reply filled her with such sadness, and it was only compounded by the sudden realization that she must only be furthering his shame and self-loathing by hiding him from her father.

"About the secrecy, Erik," she said. "It is merely a short-term solution. Given the circumstances of our acquaintance and the expectations of my family, I just—I cannot—"

"I understand," he said. "You need time." He reached out to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. "I look forward to seeing you tonight, my dear."

* * *

The question of what to wear had never presented itself before a night with Erik. Clara's options had always been limited: black, black, and more black. Tonight, though, she found herself with a dilemma: should she flout propriety and wear nightclothes if doing so would strengthen her alibi?

Yes, she ultimately decided. It was nothing he had not seen when visiting her bedroom previously, and she would still be solidly clothed.

The maid helped her out of her evening ensemble and into a sleeveless nightdress of pleated ivory linen. Then, just before she made a show of bidding her father goodnight in the sitting-room, Clara slipped on a dressing-gown of pale lilac silk, with ruffled trim and a bodice of netted cream lace. The sleeves ended at her elbows with sprays of ruffle and lace, exposing the milky skin of her forearms. Her hair she let down, its orangey-brown hue a stunning contrast against the purple fabric.

She was meticulously prepared for this meeting. She made sure to lock the door against an unexpected visit by her father; she kept the curtains drawn and lit only candles to minimize the chances of Erik being seen from outside. It was only when she stopped to take stock of the room, expecting him at any moment, that she realized how much it looked as though she was trying to seduce him.

She flew to her wardrobe and began rummaging through drawers for a nightcap, a shawl—anything to add another layer of modesty, despite how warm it was both outside and in. She was still searching, clutching a pink knit wrap in one hand, when his voice cut across the room.

"Good evening, my dear."

She dropped the shawl and hurriedly shut the drawer. Then she straightened and turned to where Erik stood in front of the curtains. He was back in his dark swallow-tailed coat, and his other standard articles of clothing—trousers, shirt, waistcoat, cravat—appeared to have been either swapped out or somehow cleaned and pressed. Regardless, she had no explanation for how a man living out of a suitcase in an attic could appear so polished and sharp. He made for a stunning vision of black and white against the red curtain backdrop.

Moreover, he carried himself as he had the night they met: with a threatening sort of regality, proud and predatory and erect, buzzing with dangerous excitement. His eyes were sweeping over the room, and when they found her facing him they flared with intensity, trailing down the center of her dressing-gown before they settled on her face.

"Ah, but you look utterly divine tonight," Erik said, his voice a silken caress. He crossed the room with long, easy strides and let the back of his hand graze across her sleeve, so lightly that it could hardly be considered contact. "I have long wished to see you out of those dark and maudlin mourning clothes."

She was not sure which shocked her more: the double entendre that she hoped was unintended, or the fact that he had given consideration to her clothing. "I thought it best to keep up the pretense," came her timid reply.

"Mm, and right you were." His hand had migrated to the ends of her elbow-length hair, now caught up in winding a delicate strand around middle and index fingers. She wondered at the change in him, his reversal of the previous night's restraint. She could only guess that he was now emboldened by their reunion, perhaps further abetted by his restlessness? To think that depriving the man of music for twenty-four hours could have such an effect! She ought to have let him leave sooner, she thought guiltily.

She cleared her throat and asked, "Shall we sit?"

He snapped his hand back as though he'd been burned. "Yes. Yes, of course."

She directed him to the loveseat, while she perched on the edge of her bed. He sat, crossing one bony knee over the other, and stared at her with an unsettling intensity. The air between them positively crackled.

"I meant to say earlier," she finally said, "that I hope your ride from Paris was...pleasant."

He cocked his head. "Indeed," he replied. "And would you like to know about the weather, too? Perhaps how I slept last night?"

She flushed. "I'm sorry; I have become rather used to actually _doing things_ when I am with you. This particular setup is just so...so..." She struggled in vain to explain herself, but his posture and expression softened.

"Contrived?" he suggested. "Not to mention there is the added tension of using your bedroom as a meeting place." He crossed the rug between them in order to sit on the bed next to her. "Let us give ourselves a new occupation," he said, and he gestured to the small stack of books on her bedside table. "You have been busy, I see. Show me what you are reading."

She flashed him a grateful smile and proceeded to spread the books out on the mattress between them, filling him in on her summer reading exploits while he nodded appraisingly and noted, "I am not liable to burn any of these."

At the bottom of the book-pile was the Baudelaire, and he withdrew it with great delicacy, holding it up between thumb and forefinger for her to see. "And did I not warn you about opening this, my dear?" he intoned.

"I haven't!" she insisted. "It has remained there, untouched, since the day when I baited you with it."

He shook his head slowly, teasingly. "Just for that, I should have _encouraged_ you to read it, you little minx." He pulled the book down and thumbed through its pages. "You would have been so thoroughly mortified by its realistically grotesque details, and its constant references to death and lovemaking, that no further punishment would be needed."

"I see," she said breathily, knowing that her eyes were surely wide as saucers by now. "And what would your introduction to Baudelaire consist of, then?"

Erik gave her a small, knowing smile and tossed the book back onto the pile. "A poem that is not even in this first edition," he said. "Lucky for you, I carry it with me at all times."

She watched and waited, expecting him to produce a scrap of paper from a pocket somewhere. But he remained still, his expression falling solemn, and his eyelids fluttered shut. The words fell like sweet fruit from his golden tongue.

"O fleecy hair, falling in curls to the shoulders! / O black locks! O perfume laden with nonchalance! / Ecstasy! To people the dark alcove tonight / With memories sleeping in that thick head of hair."

He opened his eyes, locking them with hers, and continued his murmured recitation even as he rose to his feet and started circling the room. "Sweltering Africa and languorous Asia, / A whole far-away world, absent, almost defunct, / Dwells in your depths, aromatic forest!"

Now her eyes were closing. The only thing that existed to her in that moment was his voice, rich and soft at the same time, as though he had reached down into his larynx and unfurled spools of thick, beautiful satin that spilled out of his mouth and curled around her. Her ears tracked its course around the room, and then suddenly it was so close that it startled her. When she opened her eyes, though, Erik was still standing across from her. The voice retreated to where he stood, and he continued the verse.

Her eyes shuttered again. This time, it was mere seconds before he spoke directly in her ears: one line into the right, another into the left. Then his voice was over by the window. Then, at her desk. It swirled around her like the thick locks that Baudelaire described so fondly. In this ode to a lover's hair, the poem evoked a forest, the sea, a harbor—and Erik's recitation took her to all of those places.

He was _performing_ , she realized. He could not play music, but he could employ his vocal talents, his easy command of a room, his showy ventriloquism. She could have done without the latter, but otherwise, she found herself contemplating what a fine actor he might have made; she could never tire of him after even a thousand soliloquies, she surmised.

"Blue-black hair, pavilion hung with shadows, / You give back to me the blue of the vast round sky." His voice was close again, but for all he had thrown it at her only to reel it back in, she could not even guess where he was in the room. "In the downy edges of your curling tresses / I ardently get drunk with the mingled odors / Of oil of coconut, of musk and tar."

The mattress dipped down next to her. Her breath hitched quite audibly.

"A long time! Forever! my hand in your thick mane / Will scatter sapphires, rubies and pearls, / So that you will never be deaf to my desire!" And then his hand _was_ in her thick hair, fingers trailing back to cradle the base of her skull. Her lips parted only to feel the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the bottom of the two.

He was practically whispering now as he continued to cup her head with one hand, stroke her lip with the other. "Aren't you the oasis of which I dream, the gourd / From which I drink deeply, the wine of memory?"

And then, silence. The end of the poem? She could hear his breath mingling with hers, and she felt almost intoxicated.

Finally, she looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and just barely managed to murmur a response. "Are you quite finished with your theatrics, then?"

His irises flared with stunned, incensed delight and his throat emitted something that she could only describe as a soft growl, and then his mouth claimed hers.

And oh, _this_ was why the room had crackled with nervous anticipation. Because until now, there had existed a void. A void that could only be filled by this heated meeting of lips, this kiss unlike their previous kisses in that it had begun with mutual intent and it was _needy_ , searching, each participant seeking to slake some metaphorical thirst.

Clara was vaguely aware of books hitting the floor as she moved closer to him. Her hands found the lapels of his tailcoat and tugged at them just as his lips tugged at hers, taking turns pulling each one away from her teeth and releasing with a soft suction noise. His tongue began to dart out in brief, experimental dances, adding to their contact a warmth and pressure that she had not even known she craved until then.

Finally, she traced Erik's bottom lip with the tip of her own tongue, and she was rewarded with the most satisfying, spine-tingling moan from the back of his throat. It emboldened her, and she took the same lip into her mouth. The hand at the back of her head twisted itself into her hair.

She would commit as much of this as she could to memory, she decided. And so she focused on the way he tasted—like skin, really, and traces of salt—and on the topography of his lips and tongue, going in for evidence over and over again.

Oh, heavens. How had she never known, never even hoped that physical intimacy could be like this?

Just when she started thinking about how easy it would be to fall back on the bed and continue there, he pulled away. It was gradual, and reluctant, and he kept his hand at the base of her head as he addressed her, his eyes still half-closed and looking down at the mattress. "I am afraid I must take my leave, my dear."

Her heart sank. "So soon? Is something wrong?"

At that, he smiled. "The problem, my Clara, is that you have a tendency to bewitch all of my senses, until they begin to escape me." He untangled his fingers from her hair and pulled her up to stand with him. "It is also best that I travel under the cover of darkness, while I still can."

"Oh...of course." She could still barely see straight, let alone think, and she marveled at his quick recovery.

"But first," he said, reaching into his jacket, "some reading material for you." He withdrew and handed her a thick booklet: the previous year's directory of all of the charitable organizations in Paris.

"And what am I intended to glean from this?"

"Read it and tell me," he replied. "I trust that you will find meaning in it, my benevolent little fawn."

They exchanged farewells, and he drew her in for another kiss, this one far more chaste, before he disappeared through the curtains.

She sank into her desk chair, fingertips hovering over lips now sore from Erik's attentions, and flipped open the directory. There would be no sleep tonight; her heart and soul had been quite thoroughly awoken.


	20. The Cottage

Clara had no idea what she was intended to find in the directory of charities from Erik, so she read it from cover to cover, beginning in the night after his departure and continuing throughout the following day once she had forced herself to sleep. Then she set it aside for a day to mull it over. On the following day, she picked it up a second time.

Initially, it was monotonous at best: pages and pages of organizations and homes and facilities, listed by category: orphanages, reformatories, convalescent homes, hospitals, various other means of relief. There were so many of them that they blurred together, and she wondered what could possibly stand out among them.

Gradually, though, something did begin stand out, even if it was not necessarily what she was meant to notice: the sheer _number_ of organizations listed.

Society for Emigration of Children. Home for Domestic Servants Out of Place. Asylum for Destitute Girls. Infants' Orphan Home. Home for Fatherless Children. Grants Apartments and Pensions to Widows. Society for the Relief of Poor Clergy. Women's Employment Society. Association for the Care of Invalids. On and on they went, all of them based in or around Paris.

The descriptions, too, started to transform before her eyes. From within the formal language detailing each charity's operations, increasingly more urgent and desperate entreaties began to clamor for her attention.

 _Subscriptions and donations will be thankfully received._

 _Donations for special and urgent cases are most valuable._

 _Funds are urgently needed to sustain these services._

It began to overwhelm her. When she finally finished reading, she shut the booklet and left the house for a walk to clear her head.

Aunt Céleste was a subscriber to a charity, some kind of society for the betterment of young ladies, and had always talked of the organization with marked pride. The society would provide aid, usually in the form of paid-for education or training, to assist untrained women in finding employment. The candidates were hand-picked by a committee based on recommendations from within the organization. It had always seemed a kind enough gesture, certainly.

Clara found herself balking at it now. How many needy women had slipped through the cracks while the committee deliberated the special few who deserved its attentions most? Yet she could not be too harsh on these society women, for they had at least done _something_.

 _What have_ you _done with your life thus far, Clara?_ she challenged herself.

Of substance? Nothing. The answer was nothing.

She was still agonizing over this fact when she joined her father in the drawing-room on one of his rare afternoons home. He was frowning at the letter in his hands but looked up to address her as she entered and sat opposite him.

"Ah, Clara," he said, airing out the page before her. "I have just received word from Isaac Verne. He sends his regrets that he must suspend our dinners for now, as he has been called back to Paris on urgent business."

"How unfortunate." Her reply was so distracted, so flatly unconvincing that he raised an eyebrow, and she hurried to point the conversation toward her intended purpose before he began to question her. "Father," she said, "it has come to my attention what an inordinate number of charitable organizations there are in the city."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, and it has been troubling me that there are so many people in need, so many children, even." She looked down at her lap, her fingers picking at the black crepe of her overskirt. "I hope that this is not an unseemly request, but might I be granted a monthly allowance to distribute among some of these charities?"

Henri regarded her with mild surprise. "Well, yes, I suppose so. Let me think about it and get back to you with an amount."

Her smile was appreciative, albeit somewhat grim. It was a start, but it was not enough.

* * *

She heard from Erik the next day.

 _Clara,_

 _Travel plans in progress. Will be in touch. Daroga still on speaking terms, as predicted._

 _E._

She knew that this wait was nothing compared to the one she had endured previously, but it seemed nearly as torturous. The pain of separation was fresh. Moreover, it seemed wholly unfair that she should be so thoroughly inducted into the pleasures of kissing one night and then barred from them entirely the next.

And then, a week later, she received word from him once more.

 _Little fawn,_

 _Should you happen to go riding today, do stop by the Inn at Villers-Sur-Mer. The innkeeper will have something for you. Use the name from the stele at the Louvre._

How awfully presumptuous of him, she thought, to assume that she could remember such a minute detail from several months ago.

She did, though. She remembered nearly everything from that night, and from many others.

It was mid-afternoon when she rode Pastille west to the nearby seaside town of Villers-Sur-Mer. She knew the inn's location but had never been inside, and it was with some trepidation that she walked into the establishment and past the sparsely occupied dining tables to stop at the main counter. Behind it, a stubbly, square-jawed man with a bald head was filling glasses of beer. He watched her approach but said nothing.

"I believe that you have something for me," she told him, trying to sound loftier than she felt. "Lady Taparet."

The innkeeper reached under the counter and pulled out a letter, sealed with wax, on which her alias was written in red ink. "Funny name that is, Taparet," he said gruffly as she plucked the paper from his outstretched hand. "Where is your husband from?"

"Egypt," she replied, and she placed a coin on the counter before turning to leave.

Outside, she opened and studied the missive: meticulous directions, written in Erik's hand, to an unnamed location perhaps five kilometers south of where she stood. She mounted Pastille and took off immediately.

As she rode, the pretty pastel buildings of the seaside town diminished in both stature and density. The vegetation along the road grew greener and thicker: meadows and pastures dotted with clumps of thriving forest. The land rose sharply into sprawling hills.

Erik's directions eventually took her off the main road and down a quiet lane that was flanked on her left by a tree-studded hillside and on her right by a thinner treeline, through which she could see more pasture. Several trees arched over the path to form a canopy, dark green and eerie in the waning sunlight as gray clouds rolled in from the west, darker and heavier than the doughy ones already blanketing the sky.

 _It is going to rain_ , she thought, but she had come too far to turn back. She would have to deal with it as it came.

Clara glanced down at the handwritten instructions once more; her destination was supposed to be a kilometer down this lane. _Brown rail fence_ , the paper said, and she rode until she came upon it. It was thinly lined with trees, but in the gaps between trunks she could see a small, open pasture leading up to a little cottage of pale gray stone.

It was unassuming at first, but the closer she got, the more she became enamored of it and its orangey-brown roof with gabled windows, the cluster of apple trees in the yard, the small barn out back. It seemed the very definition of coziness.

She led Pastille into the yard, where she dismounted and tied the reins to a fencepost. The cottage windows were curtained so that she could not see inside. Yet, as she approached the house, the door creaked open and Erik stepped into the doorframe, dark and expectant, all spindly lines and sinew.

"Is this where you are staying?" she asked him, beaming. "What a lovely find!"

"Yes. Well." He stepped back and motioned for her to enter. "I am afraid that it comes with another tenant."

She crossed the threshold into a small sitting-room. Two wingback chairs and a loveseat, all upholstered in faded maroon velvet, circled the wide hearth of a white stone fireplace. The wood floorboards were bare, sans a weathered oriental rug at the center of the room, and they needed polishing. At the back of the room were a modest upright piano, an old chessboard, and a tall, double-wide bookcase so brimming with literature that books were stacked atop other books. The room was dim on account of the small windows and their drawn ivory curtains, but there was a pleasant yellow glow emanating from a lamp in the corner.

Sitting opposite her in one of the wingback chairs, in a smart yet humble brown suit and his boat-shaped hat, was Nadir Khan. At her entrance, he set down the book he had been reading and stood, smiling. "Clara!" he remarked. "How good to see you."

"And you as well, daroga," she replied. "Though I must admit, I am surprised to see you here."

"Ah, yes," he said. "When Erik mentioned wanting to stay in the area, I was reminded of an acquaintance who expressed an intention to spruce up his cottage to sell. I made an inquiry and discovered the property to be unoccupied for the summer."

"Said acquaintance was uncomfortable renting the property to a stranger," Erik noted curtly from his position at her side. "Thus, I am forced to lodge with the daroga."

"And it will be much easier to acquire provisions when one of us can go into town like a normal person," Nadir reminded him, glaring.

Clara looked from one man to the other. "You are staying here," she said, dubiously. "Together."

"Indeed," said the Persian, lifting an empty teacup from a side table. "We shall regale each other with hunting stories while we drink to excess in a cloud of cigar smoke. Or whatever it is that men are wont to do in each other's company." He disappeared through a doorway into what Clara could just make out to be a small kitchen.

"By that," Erik translated, "he means that he will read and drink tea until he passes out from lethargy."

She looked up at him, her face softening. "It is awfully kind of him to do this for us," she said quietly, over the distant sounds of splashing water and clinking china. Her knuckles grazed Erik's tailcoat, and he reached out ever so slightly to slip his hand into hers, his expression inscrutable.

"Yes," he said. "I suppose so."

Nadir reappeared in the room, and they both instinctively flinched and pulled away. He all but rolled his eyes. "I am hardly a delicate flower," he informed them. "Regardless, I know when I am not wanted. I am happy to step away so that the two of you can catch up."

"No, that's not necessary," said Clara, while at the same time Erik deadpanned, "Good. Get out."

She glowered at him. "Please stay, daroga. Erik and I will go for a walk."

The Persian eyed his male counterpart with heavy skepticism. "Are you sure? He might combust in the sun."

"The daroga has a point," said Erik, nodding agreeably.

"The sun is not even out, and you know it," she said to him. "In fact, it looks like rain."

"All the more reason to stay inside, my pet."

Her eyebrows rose, and her hands planted themselves on her hips. "We cannot send Nadir out into the rain, and if you are trying out new terms of endearment, I am not overly fond of that one."

"Aha. Noted. And it is not raining _yet._ "

They stared at each other, Erik with feigned innocence and Clara in mild exasperation, though she was also struck by the urge to grab and kiss him.

Nadir cleared his throat and they both looked at him, having momentarily forgotten his presence even as they discussed him. "I could use the walk," he said decisively. "I shall take my umbrella."

Once he had seen himself out, umbrella in tow, Clara turned to Erik for further instruction. He seemed at a loss, opening and closing his mouth several times before he finally asked, "Would you like a tour?"

"Please," she said, grasping at anything to diffuse the discomfort. Whatever heated tension he had brought to her room the previous week had been supplanted by something more delicate and uncertain, as though he had left town solely to purge the restless and fiery energy from his system.

There was not much to tour, in the end: a small kitchen and a heavy wooden table for six in the adjoining space, and then two bedrooms and a washroom upstairs. The ceiling in Erik's room was pitched so steeply that the very center of the space was the only area where he could stand without ducking or hunching over. _This_ awkwardness she found endearing.

"No coffin?" she asked, with feigned concern. "However will you sleep, Erik?"

His lips pulled taut in indignation. "This continues to be a source of amusement for you, does it?"

"That depends," she replied. "Are you still doing it?" His hesitation was answer enough; she grinned.

Back on the ground floor, she went to her satchel and pulled out the booklet he had given her. "I read it twice," she said, holding it out to him. "It was very enlightening, but not in whatever way you meant it to be. I could not find any hint of a puzzle or mystery in it."

He gently pushed the directory back at her. "It is yours," he said. "Enlightening how?"

"I had no idea," she replied, shaking her head as she returned the book to her bag. "No idea how great a need there is for assistance. How many people are so reliant on the goodwill and generosity of others."

"Mm. And now that you do?"

"I feel that I must do _something_. I have already petitioned my father for a monthly stipend to donate as I see fit, but that seems so...so... _dispassionate_ , does it not?" Erik seemed to be drawing closer, looming over her as she spoke, but she hardly noticed. "I have started writing letters to some of the charities," she continued, "to inquire about their areas of greatest need, and what other forms of assistance they might use. I probably ought to make a list of the skills and resources that I can offer. Oh, but do you think they will even want my help? Perhaps not, but I should—"

He moved in to kiss her so swiftly that she did not know what was happening until his lips had been pressed to hers for several seconds, her arms wrapping around his neck as the forward momentum of his torso dipped her backward until only his hand at the small of her back kept her from toppling over. Whatever she had been about to say drifted off into the ether as she began to move her lips in tandem with his, slow and sweet, quite unlike their previous exchange.

He captured her mouth again and again, plying it with gentle, reverent strokes. The faintest pattering of rain began outside and she relished the safe comfort of the cottage walls, of Erik's lengthy arms around her.

Once his lips released hers with a quiet, velvety suction sound, he brought up a hand to stroke her cheek. She leaned into it, gazing up at him for an explanation that, to her surprise, he provided.

"I apologize for the interruption, my love, but whenever you deign to let me inside that beautiful head of yours, I cannot help but be moved."

She blinked. His words reverberated in her head, under her skin, across every nerve ending. _Beautiful. My love._

"You hardly know it yet," he continued, "but there is a voice deep inside you that yearns to come out."

She scarcely heard him; she was still stuck in the previous moment. "I'm sorry," she said faintly, "what did you call me?"

The corners of his mouth curled up slightly. "Ah, little fawn," he said, tracing her jawline with his thumb, "did you doubt that you had captured my heart? You have had it since the night you fell asleep in my drawing-room."

She cringed. "The night I sliced into my finger?"

"The same," he said. "How could I resist a doe-eyed creature so intent on procuring my friendship?"

"You tried," she reminded him pointedly.

"Many times. You are so delicately persistent when it comes from a place of good intent!" He let his hand fall to his side, and he looked at her in all seriousness now. "And that, my dear, is why I gave you the directory. It was not a puzzle to be solved. Your benevolence is no mystery."

The rain began to fall in earnest, beating down on the roof and spattering the windowpanes, and it pulled Clara out of her praise-induced reverie. "Oh, goodness," she remarked. "I hope we haven't drowned Nadir."

Erik shrugged. "He can swim."

She gave him a gentle, playful shove. "You did not have to do this, you know," she said. "That is, stay here. For me."

"You would be remiss to think me so unselfish," he replied. "I am here because I want you all to myself." He curled an arm around her back and drew her close once again. "Neither distance nor Monsieur Verne shall stop me," he murmured into her hair.

She snapped her head up, pushing a palm against his chest to put distance between them. "Erik," she said, her voice thick and taut, "I withheld that information for a _reason_."

"How little credit you give me, my dear, to assume that I could not deduce his name."

"It was not a question of whether you could, but rather the hope that you would trust me enough _not_ _to_."

"And I do, my fawn," he said soothingly. "Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for him."

She voiced the requisite follow-up question even though she was afraid of the answer, and it came out as a near-whisper: "What did you do?"

"Nothing so terrible as whatever makes you look at me with such terror! Only, it is quite possible that M. Verne found himself called back to Paris due to the sudden absence of funds in his bank account."

"Oh, Erik, you didn't!"

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "I will put it back. Eventually."

Clara let out an exasperated sigh. "I told you that I would take care of it."

"And so you shall," he said. "I have merely bought you more time while ensuring the two of us a more pleasant summer. This is the second time that a lovesick fop has tried to interfere with my happiness, and I will not stand for it."

She found herself bristling. "I do not suppose you let that first occasion lie either, did you?" she asked. "And how did that work out for you?" Her tone was soft, meant to deliver a gentle reproach, but as his mouth fell open in stunned silence she realized all too late how sharply her words fell.

Eventually, his mouth closed again and his jaw went rigid. "I hardly think that you have any authority to judge my past behavior," he snapped.

Still troubled by his meddling but overcome with guilt, she found her reply frozen in her lungs. And then, patron saint of awkward interference that he was, Nadir burst through the door in a spray of warm rainwater. His clothes clung to him and dripped onto the floor as he struggled to collapse his umbrella and extricate himself from muddy shoes.

"Well," he announced, "I believe I have discovered why my acquaintance wishes to be rid of this property."

Shoes finally off, he now lifted his head to regard them. Something shifted in his expression, likely as he absorbed the heady tension that must have permeated the room. "Ah, please forgive my intrusion," he said. He shucked his wet cap and placed it on the hat-stand near the door.

"No intrusion," Clara assured him, her voice so small and hoarse that she knew she was fooling no one. "You were saying?"

"The lane is flooded," he reported gravely, "and I suspect that the main road is as well. Our position lower in the hills is most unfortunate in a downpour. I have led your mare to the barn, Clara."

She glanced worriedly at Erik, whose expression was impassive, before looking back to Nadir. "If I do not leave soon," she said, "I shall miss dinner."

The daroga shook his head. "I could not allow you to go out in a rainstorm of this severity. It is dangerous in more ways than I could count."

"But it will be dark by the time it clears!"

He nodded. "And even then, there might still be flooding." He glanced at Erik, as though seeking permission of some kind, and beside her Erik gave a small nod. Nadir turned back to her. "I think it would be best, Clara, if you stayed the night."


	21. The Flood after the Drought

A/N: Requests for an earlier update were duly noted. Ask, and ye shall receive!*

*maybe

* * *

They wanted her to stay the night.

Well, Nadir wanted her to stay the night. Who knew what Erik wanted, in that moment?

Panic welled up in her breast. It was not the notion of spending a night with the two men that bothered her; she knew they would be perfect gentlemen. No, that would be just another indiscretion thrown into her life's file, whose examination at the pearly gates would surely hold up the line for entry.

What she feared was the anxiety that her absence would cause her father, and the inevitable torrent of worry and/or rage to follow her return home, regardless of her explanation.

But then, if the journey home was as dark and impassable as the daroga had implied it would be, what other choice did she have?

Clara looked at the daroga, his soggy brown suit practically adhering to his skin, and nodded. "All right," she said. "If I must."

Nadir went upstairs to change into dry clothes. Clara perused the volumes on the bookcase, and Erik tinkered with the piano. Even his tinkering, of course, was beautiful. She realized that she had rarely seen him play outside of his quick demonstrations in their lessons, and she found herself so unable to stop sneaking glances at him that she finally sat in the armchair opposite the instrument in order to watch him outright, not caring whether he was still mad at her. His spidery fingers skittered across the keys.

"Are you hungry?" asked Nadir, descending the staircase behind her. "I think I shall start preparing supper. What that will be, I have no idea, but I bought enough at the market today to give us plenty of options."

"Let me help," she offered, following him into the kitchen. As he began to extract colorful vegetables from a canvas bag, she lowered her voice. "I really must thank you, daroga, for arranging all of this."

He stopped and turned to face her, his hand cradling a red onion with its papery skin flaking off. "Do you know, Clara, that I have not left the city in nearly ten years? And I have always loathed its smell in the summertime." He set the onion on the counter and followed it with a zucchini. "So you see, my dear, our pastoral hideout is actually a much-needed escape for this old man."

"So you are on holiday, then!" she decreed, grinning. "In that case, I insist that you take a day to rest and indulge. You go into the other room with Erik, and I shall prepare dinner."

He resisted, of course, until she practically pushed him out the door with an insistence that she _wanted_ to cook. And she did, in fact; the shining rainbow of produce on the counter practically begged to be handled and sliced and lovingly pressed to heat to draw out its enticing flavors.

She decided on seared scallops with sautéed vegetables. Nadir had wasted no time in stocking the small kitchen, and she easily found what she needed for the basic beurre blanc recipe that Erik had taught her. She contented herself listening to the rain at the window and to the soothing murmur of male voices outside the kitchen as she cut into the onion and zucchini, the summer squash and bell pepper. She wondered what the men talked about when she was out of earshot. It made her envious sometimes: their shared history, their worldliness, the fact that Nadir knew so much about Erik that had not yet been revealed to her—and perhaps never would be.

She imagined that Erik might feel the same about her relationship with Margot, had Margot remained on this earth. But if she had, would Clara have even found her way into Erik's underground? She shuddered to think about what other fate might have befallen her—or, she was afraid to admit, might still befall her if she did not figure out how to fit Erik into all aspects of her life.

She finished her prep work and fired up the stove, thinking that perhaps she had overestimated her ability to make the sauce, sauté the vegetables, and sear the scallops, all one after the other, within a matter of minutes. It was only after she had her ingredients in the saucepan that she realized she had forgotten the place settings.

"I could use some assistance in setting the table!" she called out, cringing at how indelicate she sounded. There was a moment of silence and then a murmured exchange between the two men.

It was Erik who came in. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his limber fingers withdrawing silverware from a drawer, collecting table linens from a cupboard. All of these he arranged neatly on the table. It was only when he came to stand behind her, legs brushing against the back of her skirts, that she realized the plates were on a shelf above her head. She froze, her whisk hovering over the beurre blanc as it simmered on the stove.

Cool fingertips grazed her neck while another hand palmed her hip. Erik swept a few tendrils of hair from the soft hollow of skin between her neck and shoulder, and he leaned in to plant a feathery kiss in that same spot, making her shiver. Then, without a word, he reached over her to pull three plates from the shelf.

It was only when he drew back that he whispered into the shell of her ear, "Keep stirring, my sweet." The words snapped Clara out of her reverie, and she hurried to whisk the sauce before it separated. He stepped away to add the plates to the table.

She exhaled slowly. Was the gesture meant as an apology, or was it a signal of his dissipated anger? Things between them still felt unfinished, but in this moment, his tenderness was enough.

Ten frantic minutes later and she had tossed everything together in a serving bowl that she set on the table alongside a baguette. Then she scrubbed her hands, wishing as she did so that she could slip away to wash up and change before they all sat down to supper. Her brow was perspiring from her efforts at the hot stove, she knew that one handwash would not get the odor of garlic out of her skin, and she was fairly certain that she had sauce on her dress. Oh, goodness, she _hoped_ that was sauce and not the juice from the raw scallops.

When she turned back to the table, Erik had an empty fork raised to his mouth and was chewing thoughtfully.

"I know it's simple," she explained anxiously, "and I am a mess, and the kitchen is a mess, but I thought that Nadir deserved some reprieve, and I could use the practice…" She trailed off, squinting, as he swallowed, chasing the morsel with a sip of the wine he had apparently poured while she cooked. "Is it...edible?" she finally asked.

"Clara, dear," he said, voice gentle, "what is our primary rule before serving guests?"

"Taste the food," she answered guiltily, and she found herself staring at his very shiny shoes. "I did try everything separately, and it seemed all right, but I have not had the chance to taste the final combination. Oh, dear, is it too soggy? Underseasoned?"

He shook his head. "It is quite good, my dear. My notes are minimal. At this rate, you shall surpass the daroga's ability in no time."

"And perhaps even your ability?" she teased, giving him a sly smile.

He chuckled without mirth, as though the very idea was ludicrous. "Well, that would certainly be something to aspire to."

"I imagine it would be more attainable than surpassing the size of your ego," she replied sourly, and that earned her a genuine laugh as Erik sauntered out to collect the daroga for supper.

It was their first meal together, the three of them, since Clara had departed for the summer. Nadir dug happily into the entree, singing her praises as he always did. Erik picked at his portion and peppered the conversation with acerbic commentary, as _he_ always did. Together, the two of them talked opera, dissected Parisian society, and argued about literature. They had always folded her into their discussions easily, but there had been many occasions when she preferred to listen, and tonight was one such night.

It was a rare treat when they revisited their past, and she was amused beyond measure when the daroga spun a tale about Erik surreptitiously borrowing the shah's favorite Siamese cat in order to entertain Nadir's son.

"A fine cat," Erik said, nodding sagely. "Stunning diamond collar."

"Mm, yes, the same collar that disappeared from the feline's neck that very same day!"

"I will not give credence to your blatant insinuations, daroga."

 _Aha_ , thought Clara. So Isaac Verne was not his first victim of theft, as she had suspected. She raised her eyebrows, and he pretended not to notice. "Were conditions really so terrible that you resorted to thievery?" she teased.

Nadir snorted. "No sane man would steal from the shah, and Erik was showered in riches and gifts from him besides. You know as well as I do, Clara, that his thrill is in the act and not the reward."

"Gifts from a shah!" she exclaimed. "It sounds straight out of a fairytale. What sorts of gifts and riches?"

"It is of absolutely no consequence," Erik said. There was a bit of a bite to his usual sobriety, and it made her take notice.

"Oh, indulge the girl a bit, will you?" Nadir prodded. "She knows so little of your travels."

"And all the better for her."

The daroga waved away his words and turned to Clara. "He was given too many coin purses to count, of course," he said. "He was assigned one of the finest apartments at court. What else am I forgetting, my friend?" Erik poked at a scallop with his fork, looking unamused. "Ah!" the daroga continued. "There was a silver hookah! And a diamond ring, I believe, and a wi—"

He stopped himself at the same moment Erik's fork clattered to his plate. All went quiet for several seconds, and based on how intensely the two men watched each other, she was certain that an unspoken exchange had transpired during that time. Then Nadir cleared his throat. "Forgive me," he said. "I seem to have lost my train of thought. Would you pass the bread, please, Clara?"

When the meal resumed, the only sound in the room was the clinking of silverware against china. Erik had abandoned any pretense of eating and simply stared at his plate, brooding, until finally he pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor, and shot upright. "I apologize," he said. "I must...go out. Clear my head."

"But it's raining!" Clara protested, open-mouthed, at the same time that Nadir's sharp voice called after Erik's retreating form, "Oh, come now, this is hardly appropriate timing!"

She heard the rustle of Erik's cloak by the door, and then the daroga was tossing his napkin onto the table, stalking out of the room after him. "I can endure your coarseness more than anyone else on this earth, Erik, but this is utterly childish. Put your cloak away, and let us discuss this like gentlemen."

The front door creaked open. "I am no gentleman, daroga, and you were about to remind us all as much. Do not wait up for me."

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cottage windows. Clara delicately folded her own napkin and stood up to clear the table.

* * *

Erik had not returned by nightfall.

"It is my fault," Nadir announced from his preferred armchair, and not for the first time that night. "We talk often of our time in Persia, so I thought nothing of it at first. However, there have always been a few dark recesses of memory that we are careful to sidestep; I was careless." Whatever dark recess had incited this turn of events, however, he would not divulge: "I have encroached on Erik's privacy enough already. It is best for you to hear these things from him."

 _But I will not_ , she thought sullenly. She watched the daroga unfold a newspaper, feeling as though she ought to try her book again, but in the end she managed only to read the same paragraph approximately ten times.

It was a relief when Nadir set down the paper and stood. "I will go out and look for him," he said.

"No!" Clara protested, rising to her feet as well. "You have already been out in the rain once tonight, daroga. Let me do it."

"Ah, but I have another change of clothes. You, my dear, do not. Best to avoid further questioning tomorrow, hmm?"

She had to concede his point. She nodded and sank back into the loveseat, staring at the tiny, peach-pink roses that dotted the wallpaper in the sitting-room until the flowers seemed almost as though they were moving.

Nadir was back within minutes. She shot up from the sofa again, terrified to know what had precipitated his early and empty-handed return.

"César is gone," he said. "I do not know how Erik bypassed the flooding, but on horseback, he could be anywhere by now. At this point, we may as well retire to bed; there is nothing more that we can do. Come; you may take Erik's room."

She shook her head. "I am not yet tired," she replied; that was most certainly a lie. "You go ahead, and I will wake you if I need anything."

Once Nadir went upstairs, she dimmed the lights in the main room until only a sparse few candles against the back wall enabled her to see. Erik might be more inclined to return, she reasoned, if he thought they were asleep. Unfortunately, the plan was far too effective, when the darkness and quiet lulled Clara into slumber only minutes later.

It was the infernal creaking of the front door that woke her, and with her eyes unadjusted to the dark, she struggled to recall where she was. From where she was curled up on the loveseat, she began to make out a V-shaped patch of white. Erik's shirt.

And then there were his eyes, having spotted her easily in the night, and they watched as she pushed herself to a sitting position.

"Where did you go?" she whispered.

"Everywhere. Nowhere. Or so I thought." He moved a few steps closer, and she could smell the rainwater on him, combined with the musty odor of wet wool. "I had no destination in mind, and yet I eventually found myself on your beach, staring up at your window." She stood, putting herself mere inches from his face, but he did not flinch—only adjusted his gaze. "You have some sort of unearthly pull on me, my sky-goddess, as the moon does the tides."

She breathed in deep. How he could enchant her, her phantom, with his sonorous voice and his pretty turns of phrase. But she would not let him elude her, not this time.

"Perhaps you ought to change out of those wet clothes," she suggested. _Before we talk_ , was the implication.

He shook his head and began to pace the length of the room. "No. Not yet."

She watched him for a few seconds, and then she made a decision. She moved from the loveseat to the wall that separated living room from kitchen, and she sank into a sitting position against it, tucking her legs under her skirts as delicately as one could while sitting on the floor. Then she patted the space next to her.

Erik hesitated, exhaled, and finally moved to join her. He stretched his legs out in front of him, where they seemed to go on forever. He sat close enough that his arm rested against hers, and she began to feel the dampness of his jacket through her sleeve. She rose to her knees. "We ought to at least get you out of this coat," she urged.

His lips parted in surprise as she reached for the lapels, but he let her tug the wet wool off of his shoulders and down his wiry arms. His glowing eyes tracked her every movement.

She folded the coat lengthwise. "Let me hang this," she said. She moved to stand, but her feet had not even found solid ground before a white hand shot out to grip her arm. Erik pulled her to him in one swift movement, and she fell against his chest. He tore the tailcoat from her grip—she heard the light slap of wet fabric landing across the room—and his arms ensnared her: one around her waist to pin her to him, the other curling up and up her back until a hand wound its way into the thick hair at the base of her head, tightening around the strands, anchoring her so that she did not give way when he crushed her lips with his own.

A reflexive, muffled cry sounded in her throat. She welcomed the taste, the touch of him—but oh, there was something unsettling in this, too. He seemed almost desperate, taking and taking and taking from her faster than she could give. It was dizzying, maddening: the pressure of his mouth, the feel of his ropy muscle stretching and tightening with every kiss and every breath that he stole from her lips. She began to feel trapped.

She barely managed to come up for air. "Erik," she said, trying to get his attention, but based on his quietly rasping moan, and the way his mouth dragged itself across the slant of hers, it must have come across as an entreaty for more.

She put her palms to his chest and pushed their bodies apart. "Erik!" she cried, urgently now, and he froze.

Blue and gold eyes danced around each other as she worked to fill her lungs again. She was stunned to find herself in his lap, and when she moved to pull away, he released her without protest.

He avoided her gaze when she finally settled in at his side. "You cannot continue to do this, you know," she told him. "You cannot control aspects of _my_ _life_ while simultaneously denying me access to yours."

When he still did not speak, she took one of his hands in both of hers. "Erik, what are you so afraid of?"

He did look at her then, and it seemed to her that his eyes shone of the purest gold, as though they had managed to harbor the last vestiges of innocence after all of these years. "Oh, little fawn," he whispered. "I am terrified of _everything_."

"Tell me," she said, her eyes wide.

He hung his head and moaned, looking very much like a child forced to own up to an infraction. "I want to, I truly do—but oh, how does one even begin to explain?"

"Please try."

He shut his eyes as if to seal himself in with his thoughts. "Imagine, if you will, a lifetime of near-drought. A lifetime of unhappiness and want! Would you not, when at last presented with enough water to slake your thirst, keep drinking and drinking? Would you not make all efforts to retain and safeguard your provisions?"

She frowned, trying to understand. "And what does the water represent in this scenario?"

"You, of course! Oh, Clara, you are the blessed flood after the drought, and having never experienced such a flood before, I scarcely know what to do with myself. I question your affections at every turn, but at the same time I am haunted by the sheer number of ways in which I could lose you and so I throw myself at your feet. But without my safe and beautiful underground, this place, this pastoral nightmare, feels like a cage—a bright, exposed cage!"

Clara looked up at him, stunned. "Oh, Erik," she breathed. "I never meant to—I do not want—" She felt the tears coming, but then he was stroking her hair, the thin pads of his fingers dragging reassuring trails along her scalp.

"Hush, little one," he said. "It is hardly your doing."

She bit her lip, hard. She refused to let her body dictate every reaction. "I will not keep you here for the rest of the summer," she said. "Stay for a while, if you want, and let Nadir enjoy some time away from the city, but no more than a week or two." He opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but she cut him off. "We survived six weeks apart, and then recently another stretch. We can handle a few more weeks of separation if it means restoring your sanity."

He emitted a low chuckle. "Far too late for that, my dear. But I will consider your proposition."

"And you will stop meddling in my affairs?"

He sighed. "I do not deny that I make it my business to know everything," he replied. "But as far as my future with you is concerned, knowing everything does not seem possible. I am plagued by unknowns! My only solace"—and here his voice dropped—"is when I touch you." He brought her knuckles to his lips. "When I do that, my fawn, I know that you are safe and whole and real under my fingertips." He turned her hand over to plant a kiss to her palm, to the underside of her wrist. "You are an escape from the unknowns," he murmured into her skin. "I _know_ you."

She lifted his hand, placed it over her heart, and held it there. "Yes," she said, peering directly into his widening eyes. "You do. And that is why you should know better than to doubt my affections, you ridiculous man. But you mustn't take advantage as you did just now."

"I am so sorry," he said, breathlessly. "I meant it, you know, when I said that I did not deserve you."

"How fortunate for you, then, that life is hardly fair," she teased, but then she fell somber again. "Will you tell me what you and Nadir kept from me at dinner?"

Erik's jaw slackened, and she imagined that if he'd had an ordinary countenance without a mask, she would have seen the blood drain from his face. She waited for him to retreat into his hard shell and snap shut against her.

Instead, he opened himself up.

"There was a harem girl," he said, "in Persia. Younger than you. The shah sent her to me as a...as a gift. A wife."

Clara's chest constricted, but she stayed silent.

"I promised her absolute freedom, Clara—freedom to leave the harem, even the country, with a full purse—if she would only remove my mask and come to my bed, willingly, for one night."

The contents of her stomach churned. There was no possible end to this story that could satisfy her, she realized.

"She was all too aware that to refuse me meant certain death," he continued, his voice seeming to strain against the confines of his larynx. "And do you know what she chose, Clara? Death! Death over her own freedom!" He laughed joylessly. "She had not even seen my face by that point."

"Did—was it you who—?" She could not even voice the question. She did not want to know the answer, but she needed to know it.

"I was not there for her execution, no. But it may as well have been by my hand, for I created the torture chamber that facilitated her demise." He pivoted to face her, and she could barely meet his eyes. "I have seen and done many terrible things in my life, Clara," he said, "but few haunt me as much as that incident does. And now I expect that it will haunt you as well."

He turned back and rested his head against the wall. "This is what happens, I am afraid, when one becomes entangled with a monster. But there is still time to escape, if you wish it."

Her head felt thick with fog. She hardly knew what to do with his confession; it was not all right, not by any means, and it would take more time to process. At present, however, she was so very fatigued, and a very broken man had, against all instinct, just made himself vulnerable as a sacrifice to her.

"No," she said. "None of that tonight. I have missed you, Erik, and I am tired." She wrapped his nearest arm in both of hers and set her head against his shoulder, glancing up at him to add, "Do not assume that that terrified young girl spoke for all women. I would come to your bed willingly. And I would stay."

His eyes seemed to expand and pulsate in the darkness, and she realized that what she had meant as a reassurance sounded like an offer. She felt warmth flooding to the surface of her face, but she found herself biting her tongue, waiting to gauge his reaction.

Erik let out a soft moan. "Little fawn, you are going to be my undoing," he murmured, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. "But this is not Persia, and you are not a harem girl. I do have some sense of propriety where these things are concerned, and you, my Clara, ought to retire to bed."

He got to his feet, pulling her up with him, and he led her by the hand to his quarters, where she was to sleep. He gathered up what he thought she might need, as best he could—including one of Nadir's dressing-gowns, which he pilfered as the daroga slept. "I imagine your current ensemble to be uncomfortable for sleeping," he explained, sheepishly, as she stared at the garment with surprise. "The daroga will not mind."

"Thank you," she said, smiling as she addressed him through half-lidded eyes, and he kissed her goodnight before leaving her to her own devices.

He was right, in the end; she could not stand the idea of wearing her full dress to bed, especially given how warm the second floor was. She stripped down to her undergarments and put on the maroon dressing-gown. It was too large and hung strangely from her shoulders, but she was grateful for the tie with which she was able to cinch the fabric around her waist.

Clara slid under the sheets and buried her face in the pillow, revelling in how wonderful everything felt against her tired muscles, her weary skin. The bedding smelled like Erik, she realized—wool and starch, mostly, and soap: fresh and pure, with the tiniest lingering scent of something snappy and herbal. Rosemary? Thyme?

The more she breathed in his scent, the more she could not sleep.

It was nearly an hour later when she padded back downstairs. She was surprised to find Erik lying directly on the floor, on his side with nothing beneath him but rug and pillow, a light blanket pulled tight around his sleeping form. He wore no tailcoat but otherwise appeared to be in full evening dress.

Even in repose, Erik's figure looked stick-straight and proper, and somehow even invulnerable. But she could see a difference in his mouth and jaw, the way his muscles relaxed enough to make him look as though he did not carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. She was struck by how handsome he appeared despite the presence of the mask.

She did not notice until too late that his breathing had lost its measured heaviness. "It is impolite to stare," he murmured, and she jumped, her hand flying to still her hammering heart.

"Sorry," she whispered. He opened his eyes then, and she felt uneasy, looming over him as she was. As he watched, eyes widening at an exponential rate, she lowered herself to lie next to him, inching her way onto his pillow until he shifted to allow her head more space. They faced each other, as close as they could possibly be without actually touching.

"Clara," Erik said, warningly. " _What_ are you doing?"

"I could not sleep," she replied, "and something was bothering me."

"What is bothering you, my dear?"

"That night in your home, after I—after we—" Goodness, she could not even admit aloud that she had kissed him! "I told you that I thought I might be falling in love with you."

There was a beat of silence. "Yes," he confirmed. "I certainly do recall that."

"I just thought I ought to inform you that...that, in fact, I do. Love you. In case you were...wondering."

He said nothing. His eyes, trained on hers, burned bright in the darkness. Then he shifted, his arm encircling her until she was sufficiently ensconced in the blanket with him. His arm came to rest draped over her torso, and his hand flattened against the space between her shoulder blades.

"Goodness," he murmured. "You _are_ a goddess." He eased his lips onto hers, gentle and seeking, and somehow it was within the soft folds of his protracted kiss that she finally fell asleep.


	22. The Foreigner

A/N: Erm, sorry. I lost some drive there. Please do continue to share your thoughts because, in the absence of commentary, I start to assume that I'm boring and need to change stuff. (But if I am, let me know that, too. Preferably in a way that does not crush my fragile psyche.)

* * *

Clara woke to the sound of wood slamming in the distance. A drawer, perhaps? A cupboard? When she could not make sense of the disturbance, she opened her eyes. Faint yellow ones stared back at her, all but extinguished in the daylight that was evidently filtering in through the sitting-room curtains, and she smiled.

"Good morning," she whispered, taking in the warmth and weight of Erik's arm, still curled lightly around her. Her neck and shoulders were stiff and sore, but she hardly cared.

Just as he opened his mouth to reply, there came another _whack_ whose place of origin she could now identify as the kitchen. "I do believe this is the daroga's indiscreet attempt to wake us," he said quietly.

She groaned; she had forgotten about Nadir entirely. She could feel her face burning as she asked, "Oh, what must he be thinking right now?"

"It is hardly his business," said Erik, but with one anxious, pleading glance from her, he softened. "I will take care of it," he assured her. "I imagine you wish to go upstairs and wash up." He pressed a kiss to her forehead and moved his arm, allowing her to extricate herself from the blanket.

It was with great reluctance that she did so, and she practically floated up the stairs. Had she ever experienced anything so heart-warmingly marvelous as waking up next to the man she loved? She thought not. She also suspected that it would not—could not—happen again.

But, oh, was _this_ what marriage could be like? Suddenly, the idea of it was not so daunting after all. She could not call it a fairy tale, and yet there was some element of magic in it, this notion that one could become so inextricably bound to another person, could wake up tangled in their arms as the rule and not the exception.

Clara had just reached the top of the stairs when she heard Nadir's voice cut through the sitting-room below—"Finally awake, are we?"—and she stopped to listen.

"I have been awake, daroga, ever since you started lumbering around upstairs," Erik replied. "As you expressed yesterday, you are hardly a delicate flower. I was simply too comfortable to move."

Clara's spine tingled at his words. How long had he lain there, watching her?

"Have you no shame?" Nadir snapped. "No sense of decency?"

"You shall have to be more specific, I am afraid."

"You make no attempt to even hide what transpired here last night! At the very least you might have lured her to the bedroom like a normal predator, instead of flaunting her presence like some conquest."

"How you can consider this any business of yours is beyond me." It seemed as though Erik was baiting the man now, perhaps even _reveling_ in his indignation, and it made Clara cringe. She had half a mind to go back down and smack him.

"She is an innocuous young woman," Nadir said, "and I do not want to see her pulled into a...a...cesspit of depravity!"

Erik laughed mockingly. "Truly, daroga, a cesspit? And this coming from the man who has aided and abetted her since day one! You cannot save her from your misguided notions of sin, my friend; she has made the choice to buck propriety independent of any influence that you or I had. She is not a child, you know."

"Regardless, I expected more chivalry from you, Erik!"

"Ah, you flatter me! But there were no such transgressions here last night, at least none at the level you are imagining. She left her bed to talk to me, and then she fell asleep. I swear on my honor."

The Persian snorted, and Erik revised his statement. "On _your_ honor, then. You are the most honorable man I know, daroga, so I do not mean that lightly." There was a weighty silence, and then he continued, softer now. "I have not discounted your concern for Clara's well-being, you know. I am...grateful."

"Perhaps I rushed into judgment," Nadir conceded, his voice losing its edge. "Was that _my_ dressing-gown she was wearing?"

"Yes, and I dare say it suits her better."

"I can hardly argue with that. Now, Erik, there is still the matter of your behavior last night…"

Erik sighed. "Honestly, daroga, do you never tire of hearing yourself talk?"

Clara smiled, satisfied that the men had fallen back on their comfortable, run-of-the-mill bickering, and she crept into the bathroom to change and freshen up as best she could.

When she returned, she found them sitting quietly in separate armchairs. Erik—still without tailcoat, she noted with restrained glee—was lifting a teacup to his lips, the saucer balanced on his thigh. Nadir, who sported a tan linen suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and brown skin, held his hat in one hand while the other absently rubbed at his beard. Upon seeing her, he stood and donned the hat. "Good morning," he said. "I hope you will permit me to escort you home, at least part of the way. It was decided"—here he shot a surreptitious glance at Erik—"that it would be safest for everyone if I were the one to accompany you."

"That is kind of you, daroga," she said. "If you don't mind, I should like to leave at once. I can only imagine what my father is thinking at this point."

Nadir nodded and gestured to the door. "Of course. Shall we?"

Clara turned to face Erik as he set his teacup aside and stood, drawing close. "I doubt I will be able to leave the house for a while after this," she told him quietly. "I don't know how or when I will manage to return."

"Leave it to me, my dear," he said, and then he leaned in to kiss her, right in front of Nadir. She was too surprised and self-conscious to kiss back, but the display of affection was quick, and she saw when Erik pulled away that their counterpart had averted his eyes.

"Safe travels, old man," Erik called after them as they exited the cottage. "I shall challenge you to a chess match upon your return!"

"Oh, joy of joys," muttered Nadir.

As he and Clara retrieved their horses from the barn, she asked, "Have you ever managed to beat him at chess?"

"Once," he said, and he proceeded to saddle his black-brown stallion. "He claimed to have been distracted by hay fever."

She frowned curiously as she hopped up onto Pastille's saddle and took up the reins. "Can you even contract hay fever without having a nose?"

The daroga shrugged. "Does it matter, when we know him to be a terrible loser?"

They headed up to the road, careful to sidestep as much as possible the thick pockets of mud that pockmarked the area, and they eventually fell in side by side at a comfortable pace. For all their efforts, however, the horses still kicked up an endless spray of muddy water, with Clara's boots and skirts showing the evidence. She felt filthy and hungry and began to think of little else but a hot breakfast and coffee and a bath.

Nadir broke the silence to ask, "What will you tell your father?"

"That I went out riding," she replied, "and the road back suddenly flooded. That it was dark and wet and I was frightened, so I found an inn and stayed the night."

He nodded. "Good. Do not embellish, if you can avoid it."

More silence. She began sneaking glances at him, wondering about his earlier outburst. For all that he and Erik bickered, she had never seen a confrontation as weighty as this one had been.

"I do not know how much you overheard this morning," he said abruptly, as though reading her thoughts, "but I ought to apologize. I am afraid I overstepped my bounds."

"I do appreciate you looking out for me," she assured him. "I think that I am holding my own, though, as far as Erik is concerned."

"Yes, it would certainly appear so." He rubbed at his dark beard again—an anxious habit, she was learning. "In all candor, I think that perhaps it is Erik whom I ultimately worry about."

This surprised her, and she was sure that her expression indicated as much. But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense.

"He feels very deeply," Nadir continued. "When he dives in, Clara, he is _all_ in. I worry because—and please, know that I do not doubt you have the best intentions when I say this—it seems as though you are _not_ all in."

She felt her body slump, as though he had just jabbed a needle into her side and she was now deflating. "I know," she said, her voice a near-whisper yet still thick with shame. "I just want to...to be sure." She could not even look at him now, and instead she focused on the way that her horse's chestnut flank twitched below her. "Openly choosing Erik—it has the potential to fracture my family. And it is already such a small family."

"I understand," he said. "Just remember that you have your chosen family as well as your blood relatives."

"My chosen family?" she repeated, glancing up at him.

He gave her a nervous smile. "Well, I do realize that a retired Persian police chief and a disfigured musical genius must not rank highly on one's list of desirable contacts, but they can be a fiercely loyal bunch, when it comes down to it."

"Oh, yes," she breathed, her eyes watering. "Anyone should be so lucky as to have them around. Though I would not say I chose them so much as they allowed me to intrude on their existing relationship."

"They recognized that, sometimes, a small investment is necessary for a great reward." His gaze met hers and held fast.

"And I love them for it," she said. "Both of them."

He blinked, swallowed, nodded—each motion awkward and rushed, as though he was trying to keep something more substantial at bay. "I wish you could have met my wife," he finally uttered, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," she said. She wiped her eyes, rather indelicately, on the cuff of her sleeve. "Me too."

In the ensuing quiet, she mulled over his words. It made her heart soar to know that he considered the three of them family, and as she thought of their time together, she began to feel the same familial affection. Heaven knew she preferred those moments over any amount of forced socializing in the Toussaints' sitting-room. But would it be enough? And, if they did not approve of her choice, could she abandon her aunt and father after they had already loved and lost so many?

Nadir suddenly pulled his horse in close. "Clara," he said, so low that she could barely hear him, and there was a sense of urgency in his voice. "If asked, you were being tailed by a suspicious-looking rider just outside Villers-sur-Mer until I interceded and offered to escort you home."

She looked up, confused, and then she saw them: two men on horseback, just coming into view down the road, in what appeared to be crisp button-up uniforms of dark blue. Police officers.

"What did the rider look like?" she asked him, unconvinced that she would not break under scrutiny. Her heart was pounding now.

"Dark jacket, bowler hat, mustache," Nadir rattled off. "That was all you saw before I drove him off. Remember, no embellishments."

"And do I know your name?"

His fingers pinched the brim of his hat, tipping it downward as he gave her a nod and a tight-lipped smile. "Nadir Khan. At your service, mademoiselle."

Amid her haze of anxiety, she managed to force a grateful smile. "The pleasure is all mine, monsieur."

They watched the officers grow nearer, and it became evident in the way that the men watched her, leaned in to murmur to each other, and sized up the daroga that their approach now carried intent. When the two parties finally converged, the officers turned their horses to take up the width of the road so that the travelers had no choice but to stop.

Nadir straightened in the saddle. "Good day, officers," he said. "How can we assist you this fine morning?" His Persian accent was subtle, but it was there, and the men took notice.

"We have business with the lady, actually," said the older of the two. His coarse mustache matched the dark hair peeking out from underneath his stiff cap, and his ice-blue eyes trailed over to Clara. "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but you match the description of a young woman reported missing early this morning. May I ask your name?"

She felt the blood drain from her face as she replied, faintly, "Clara Toussaint."

The officers exchanged meaningful glances. "Half the precinct is out searching for you, mademoiselle, at the urging of your father," said the mustachioed one. "I am happy to find you in good health. I am afraid, though, that we must ask you both to come back to the station with us."

Clara threw a worried glance at Nadir, who looked surprisingly unruffled. "Please, officers," she entreated. "I was merely stranded at an inn overnight because of the rain. This kind gentleman offered to escort me back after I ran into some trouble on the road. I just want to go home and see my father and procure a change of clothes."

"I understand, mademoiselle, but I imagine the inspector will have a few questions for you. Standard procedure, of course."

"Of course," said Nadir, though she detected some skepticism in his reply. Still, what could she do but follow?

It was a long and silent ride to the station, with a sense of guilt and foreboding that followed her the entire way. It did not help that she and Nadir were separated upon arrival. He was led through the central maze of desks and officers and a handcuffed criminal or two, toward a stale-looking room in the back, while she was seated in a small office off to the side.

It was another fifteen minutes before she was joined by a tall, broad man with a salt-and-pepper beard who introduced himself as Inspector Messier. He closed the door and sat opposite her, lacing his fingers together as his elbows came to rest on a desk of polished mahogany. "I have dispatched someone to notify your father of your safe return," he informed her. "I imagine that he will want to come and see you home. He was quite beside himself earlier." At this, Clara sank further into her chair.

"I am sorry that you had to come here," the inspector continued. "You would have been escorted straight home had there been an officer to spare, but what with the situation and all, my men felt it prudent to stay together. Strength in numbers, you see."

"The situation?"

"Your...traveling companion. The foreigner. There was no telling whether he would cooperate." Inspector Messier leaned forward, his expression softening. "And on that note, mademoiselle, I must ask whether you were coerced into lying for the man. He is safely detained in another room, so if there is more to the story, now is the time to say so. He would be apprehended immediately, and there would be no risk of retaliation."

"Oh, heavens, no!" she protested. "Honestly, inspector, I am most grateful for his assistance."

He eyed her carefully. "Well," he said slowly, "if you are certain. Still, I must ask you for an account of events, if only for our formal report."

She gave him a bare-bones summary, using only the details that she knew Nadir could corroborate. Whenever the inspector pressed for more, a simple "I do not recall" on her part usually sufficed. Finally, he seemed to tire of her and pronounced the interview over, at which point he took her to the small lobby out front to await her father's arrival.

"Inspector," she said as he moved to leave her. "Where is M. Khan? I should like to thank him again."

He frowned. "I am afraid that he is still being questioned. We are exploring possible connections with a series of recent home invasions."

"What could he possibly have to do with that?"

"Well, I would not put it past him and his ilk. Very primitive people, you know." He said this with complete nonchalance, as though sharing a well-known fact with a friend, and then tipped his hat to her. "Good day, then, mademoiselle."

With that, he turned and walked away, and in her shock she could only stare after him. But in the wake of their discussion, she began to feel confused and angry and sick to her stomach. How could a man of rank be so ignorant? Moreover, how had he been allowed such authority in the first place?

She saw the coach when it pulled up outside, so she was standing and ready when her father burst through the front entrance. She was not prepared, however, for the tenacity with which he grabbed her and pulled her to his chest. "Good God, Clara!" he cried. "I was so worried."

"I'm sorry, Papa," she said, her reply muffled by his jacket. "I was stranded and had no choice."

He finally released her from his embrace, but he kept a protective hand on her back as he ushered her out of the station and toward the coach. "Come, let's get you home. We'll send the stablehands to collect your horse."

As she passed through the doorway, she chanced one last look toward the back of the building. There was no sign of Nadir. She choked back a sob, for she could not help but feel as though she had set him up for the same incredible acceptance and loyalty that he had shown her—only, in the end, to fail him.

* * *

The paternal lecture that she received upon her return was not nearly as long or as severe as she had expected. Her father was reasonable enough to acknowledge that she had no control over the elements. However, he now expected her to obtain permission should she wish to leave the property, which meant that if he was out, she was stuck. Having exercised her independence in exponentially increasing amounts over the past several months, Clara found this new restriction particularly suffocating.

Moreover, she could tell that Henri intended to be more vigilant while he was her sole chaperone, which meant that sneaking out would be more difficult, if not wholly impossible.

This was especially frustrating for a day when she could think of nothing but Nadir: specifically, checking in on his status and alerting Erik to the situation. But there was nothing she could do short of nagging her father, who promised that he would inquire about the man the following day, even if he did not fully understand why she was so invested in his fate. "The police have a right to question him," Henri insisted. "If he is cleared of any wrongdoing, which I hope he is, then they will release him. It is perhaps a waste of a day but not the end of the world, Clara."

She had excused herself to her quarters, where she could bathe and change and act sullen in private. She wondered how much time would have to elapse before Erik took action. And oh, God, what if the police sussed out the address where Nadir was staying? What of Erik then?

The what-ifs drove her to near madness, such that when night fell she could do nothing but sit at her desk in front of the window, lights out and curtains open, staring at the sea as it curled and foamed under a star-studded sky. She had dressed for bed in her sleeveless ivory gown, and the sleek rosewood surface felt cool beneath her elbows and forearms.

Her view of the waves was suddenly eclipsed by tall shadow, and she jumped.

"Good evening," Erik said from her balcony. "Might I come in?"

She was on her feet and throwing herself at him even as he crossed the threshold.

"There, there, little fawn," he said, stroking the hair that fell down her back as she clung to him, her arms around his waist like a vice. "I have come to report that the daroga returned home safely. He told me everything."

"Oh, thank God!" she cried, pulling back to look up at him. "It was awful, Erik, how they treated Nadir. I could scarcely believe it."

"It is nothing new, unfortunately," said Erik. "He is perceived as a foreigner, which makes him an automatic target. But from what I understand, they were quite respectful in that he was left unharmed."

Her mouth fell open. "Surely this is not the norm, as far as foreigners are concerned?"

He scoffed. "Goodness, yes, especially when religion comes into play. The Muslims, the Roma, the Jews especially—ah, little fawn, you look positively shocked! I see that the pet name is still apt. It surprises you to know that persecution is alive and well."

She released him and sank back into her desk chair, staring helplessly at the hands in her lap. "How have I missed so much?" she asked despondently.

"It is a privilege of your birth, to be able to overlook such things."

She shook her head. "Poor, poor Nadir."

Erik stepped over to the desk, leaning his backside against it with his hands splayed on its surface. He peered down at her and said, "The man spent his career arresting and questioning people. He is more than capable of handling himself in these situations."

How often she forgot that he had been a police chief! It had always been difficult for her to reconcile the two versions of Nadir—past and present—in her mind. "Why did he leave his job?" she asked. "And Persia, for that matter?"

"Exile," Erik said. "When the shah ordered my execution, the daroga helped me to escape and faked my death instead."

Clara's brain chose to gloss over the death-sentence bit for the time being. "He was found out, then?"

He nodded. "Suspected, at any rate. He was stripped of his property and expelled from Persia. To this day, though, he continues to receive a modest pension from their government. And thus, here we are."

"Do you think he misses it?"

"Having an occupation? Perhaps. But he did not have the stomach for what that particular post required of him. He has always been a bit of a martyr. It is loathsome, really."

She smiled. "You say that only because he makes you question your own morals."

Something changed in his expression then—at least, what little she could see of it. "You are...not wearing sleeves," he said throatily.

She was torn between modesty and amusement—had he really only just noticed her bare arms?—but she could not shake the thoughts of the daroga from her head. "Do you think that Nadir would ever remarry?" she asked, even as Erik reached out and trailed a single fingertip down her exposed upper arm. Her eyelids fluttered in response.

"If he has not been compelled to seek another wife by now," he murmured, ghosting the same finger along Clara's elbow and onto her forearm, "then I doubt he ever will be." His hand ended its tour of her arm and settled momentarily onto her hand, which lay upon the desk. "But I suppose, then, that you would propose we explore other avenues of companionship for him. A cat, perhaps? The daroga simply _adores_ felines."

She glared at him. "You mock me, Erik, but I truly wish for him to be happy."

"Ah, little fawn." He squeezed her hand. "Happiness is such an unattainable thing for most. He is lucky for having experienced it at all."

"I suppose," she said, frowning uncertainly as she considered the notion.

"He is at least living in peace. That is something to be glad for."

She nodded. "Still, you ought to go easier on him. He loves you, you know."

"On account of my good looks and charm, no doubt. Goodness, Clara, shall I go find the daroga so that you may canoodle him instead?"

"Oh, you and your fragile ego," she said, swatting him playfully. "Besides, you and I are hardly canoodling."

He straightened and snatched her out of her chair until she was flush against his chest, at which point he raked his knuckles down her cheek and murmured, "A fact that I intend to remedy, posthaste. Let us sit out on the balcony, shall we?"

"That would be terribly risky," she cautioned him. "We cannot talk out there; father might hear."

"Oh, my dear," Erik said with a near-malicious grin. "I have no intention of talking."

Her heart skipped not one, but several, beats as he pulled her outside with him. When he cupped her face in his hands and claimed her lips for his own, it was as though he was extracting every ounce of tension from her body. She let him take it, and she succumbed to the warm pull of mouth and tongue until there was nothing but the smallest flicker of disquiet at her core. Even then, she could not help but feel that something had changed irrevocably, and that the tiny flame deep down inside of her would not be extinguished.


	23. Summer's End

A/N: Sorry again. Rough week. Hard to brain. Please send Advil and chocolate and hugs.

I did, however, read and appreciate all of your reviews and your urges to update. Under normal circumstances, they would absolutely motivate me to write faster. Here's hoping for a return to normalcy soon! This chapter is somewhat short and transitional, but I expect a return to longer updates after this.

* * *

24 August 1882

Mlle. Toussaint,

I was most pleased and grateful to learn of your interest in the Herves-Guillaume Asylum for convalescents after childbirth. As you likely recall, you had inquired into our operations and greatest areas of need. I apologize for the tardiness of my reply, but I find myself with little time for correspondence given our ongoing shortage of volunteers and resources. So, you see, the timing of your letter was most fortuitous!

The asylum provides temporary shelter to women and their infants immediately following childbirth. Most of our tenants are referred directly from the Pont-Royal maternity hospital, which, as you may already know, serves the most impoverished women in Paris. The shelter houses 50 beds and 50 bassinets, as well as areas for washing, dining, and recreation. In the two years since the asylum was founded, more than two thousand mothers have passed through our doors.

Our services, however, extend far beyond basic housing and maternal care. You see, Mlle. Toussaint, the vast majority of the infants brought here are illegitimate, often born to migrant women who come to Paris to hide their condition from family, and thus child abandonment following this period of recovery is sadly all too common. We take it upon ourselves to provide advice and assistance in rearing the little ones while they are in our care and to ensure as smooth an exit from the asylum as possible. We are able to find employment for one in five women on average, and, when applicable, we provide clothing and pay their first month's lodging. Should the need arise, however, we also maintain close ties with a temporary asylum for children as well as a local orphanage.

The city funds our basic provisions as well as my position and a bare-bones staff of two doctors, five nurses, a housekeeper, two maids, and a cook. We must rely on charitable donations for additional expenses. In addition, we rely heavily on volunteers for such tasks as clerical work, infant care, food service, general oversight of tenants during recreational time, tenant employment assistance, and solicitation of funds.

It is diligent, rewarding work to assist these new mothers and ensure the futures of their children. My hope is that additional help will increase the frequency with which they are able to secure comfortable employment and lodging upon their departure. Should you still have interest in providing aid, please do notify me of your desired level of involvement, and you will be welcomed with open arms.

Sincerely yours,

Mme. Adele Georges

Directress, Herves-Guillaume Asylum

* * *

It was one of four letters that she would receive from charitable organizations in reply to her written inquiries, but the moment that Clara read the response from Mme. Georges, she knew that she wanted to volunteer at the asylum.

Perhaps it was folly; childbirth was a terrifying mystery to her, and she knew almost nothing about infants or child-rearing. But she could not help but give in to the deep-seated ache that she felt for these women—likely her age, and younger—who had no money, no family, and no home, yet now found themselves solely responsible for a another human being. And maybe, just maybe, her actions could spare even one child the experience of growing up without a mother: that faint sense of missed opportunity, of a phantom limb, that was all too familiar to her.

The day after she received the letter, she wrote to Mme. Georges to arrange for a volunteer position at the asylum starting in mid-September. It was nearing the end of August now, and Erik and Nadir were set to depart the following day. She had managed to visit their cottage twice in the few weeks since the incident with the police, both occasions on a father-approved riding excursion, but otherwise her time with Erik had been reduced to clandestine late-night meetings in her room. The guilt that she felt over her lack of propriety continued to wane, overshadowed by her ever-deepening affection for the masked man. Stolen kisses aside, however, he remained as chivalrous as ever.

Of course, that did not lessen any of her shock when he made his nightly entrance not from her balcony, as usual, but by opening her bedroom door and walking right in from the hall.

"Are you _mad_?" she hissed, rushing over to shut the door behind him. "It is a wonder my father did not see you!"

"He is asleep," Erik said, smoothing his hands over her shoulders and down her upper arms. "I made sure of it."

She took a step back and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "You _spied_ on him?"

"Just this once, dear. I will not make a habit of it. However, you have been caged in this house far too often, and I intend to take you to the beach tonight."

It took some prodding, but his confidence and enthusiasm won her over in the end, and the two of them snuck out of the house hand in hand. He led her around the back of the house and into the garden, where he motioned for her to stop and then bent over and plunged his arm into a shrubbery.

"I generally do not find use for the fripperies of romance," he said, rooting around for something unseen, "but I see no reason why we should not be comfortable." He straightened and pulled out a covered basket, which he held up to show her. She could just see the neck of a wine bottle poking out.

"Is that a _picnic_?" she asked.

"Champagne and a blanket," he replied indignantly. "That hardly qualifies as a picnic. Come." He took up her hand again, pulling her toward the beach, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning.

* * *

The blanket beneath them was thick and soft; the wine was cool and crisp on her tongue but warm and tingly as it went down. Clara drained the last of her glass and rooted its stem in the sand nearby, tilting her head to rest on Erik's shoulder as he itemized the reasons why Meyerbeer was overrated. He seemed equally relaxed despite his criticisms, his gaunt fingers mapping languid trails across the back of her hand as he spoke.

"You have a beautiful voice," she murmured during a lull in conversation. "I wonder whether there is a single angel in heaven with a voice as magnificent as yours."

His mouth played at a smile as he gazed out into the sea. "Ah, my Clara. I admit, it both stuns and thrills me that you should flatter me with blasphemy."

"It was an inquiry, not a theory," she said. "But if you were to start uttering the most mellifluous-sounding words I could think of, then I might be forced to reconsider."

"Is that so? And what might those words be?"

"Sumptuous?" she offered.

"Mm, indeed." He nodded agreeably. "Sumptuous." Like molten gold, the word slid from his throat and off the tip of his tongue. She shivered.

"Now say 'ingénue.'"

At this, he laughed outright. "It is a wonder that I do not say it more often. My dear, you _are_ an ingénue."

She frowned at him but decided to move on. "Now recite Shakespeare?"

His voice dipped lower, deeper, every vowel and consonant articulated at a steady pace with soft, rounded precision. "'O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew."

Her mouth fell open, and a warm shudder coursed through her until she thought her toes might curl. It seemed almost unfair that one person should wield so much power in his speech alone. She felt a sort of hunger clawing at her insides and suddenly found herself leaning into him, unbidden. For one split second she saw a flash of that same hunger in his fiery golden irises, and then he met her halfway, their mouths coming together at opposite angles and in slow, firm strokes. She closed her eyes, and then there was nothing but him and the sea air, both tasting of salt and promise.

It had become harder and harder to bid Erik farewell of late, and as Clara considered the length of their pending separation, her lips moved with greater urgency. His responded in kind, pressing harder, and she found herself yielding to them, leaning back to rest on her elbows, until she finally gave up all efforts to remain upright. She slowly lay back against the blanket, and he followed, the length of his body stretching out while his arms and torso hovered over her, his lips never ceasing their quest for contact.

Her head fell past the edge of the blanket. The sand ground into her hair as they kissed. It felt terribly wanton, this reckless abandon—so unlike the Clara of yesteryear. But it was also rapturous and intimate and special. She reached up, wanting to touch Erik, wanting to feel his nearness even if it was through the stiff black cloth of the mask. Her fingertips found his cheekbone, and she flattened her palm against the side of his face.

Like a startled deer he recoiled, springing up and back into a sitting position. Clara could just make out his ragged breathing over the crash of waves as she took in the newfound distance between them, the way his hands rigidly planted themselves in that space as though to form a barrier to further intrusion.

She finally lowered her hand from where it had stayed frozen in mid-air, and she sat up, brushing sand from the back of her head as she did so. She willed herself not to take his rebuff personally, but she could feel her cheeks flaming as she stuttered, "I—I'm sorry. I thought that if..." She paused. "No. I should have asked."

Even without seeing it, she could tell that every muscle on his wiry frame was coiled with tension. In the seconds that followed her apology, however, his body began to slacken. He swallowed. "Forgive me. It is a—a learned reflex."

"I understand," she said, though she was not sure she did. "Does it...hurt?"

"Not when you do it, no."

The full weight of his implications set in then. How many times must a man be assaulted before he developed that kind of reflex? She thought she might vomit. "Who—?" was all she managed to choke out before the threat of sobbing stopped her.

"Some things are better left in the past, little fawn." Erik reached out with the pad of his thumb to brush a teardrop off her cheek. "But please, no pity."

Clara shook her head vehemently. "You mistake my tears for sadness," she said, her voice quavering, "but I am _angry_."

His lips parted in surprise. "Angry," he repeated quietly, as though testing out the word. "On my account?"

"Yes, on your account!" she replied. "People should not be hurt or ostracized or driven underground simply because they are different." But even as the declaration left her mouth, it hit her: how were those things any different from what she was doing? Justified or not, she was still hiding him. Devaluing him. How could she have possibly thought that this would not affect him?

"I want you to meet my family," she blurted out.

He blinked at her, his spine tensing once more. "My dear, are you certain that is...wise?"

"I am not ashamed of you," she said, in an effort to assure herself as much as him. "I am, admittedly, scared to reveal the circumstances under which we have met. But perhaps there is a workaround?"

"Such as?"

It was an idea that she had been contemplating all week, unsure of whether she would have the courage to pull the trigger. But _something_ needed to happen now, or she could potentially lose him forever, and that thought filled her with more fear than any other possibility.

"I will tell my father that I want to take up piano lessons again," she said. "He would not say no, and he would leave me to send out for a recommendation. And then you could—"

"—instruct you in your home," Erik finished for her. "Interesting." She watched him mull it over, certain that he would quickly extrapolate the advantages of this scenario: that it would be the presumed means by which the two of them met; that her father and aunt would have time to become used to his presence, to know him, to understand that he had merit. But he would have to meet her halfway; he would have to make himself vulnerable. The notion terrified even her, and she knew it was a lot to ask.

"Very well," he said, and Clara felt every ounce of her tension melt away. "But if things do not go well?"

She sucked in a breath of air. "Then we shall have to regroup. Try something else."

He gave a solemn nod and was quiet. Then, gently, he let his face fall into his hands, as though he could not bear to look at her.

"Erik?" she asked, drawing nearer to him. "Erik, what is it?"

Still he did not respond, not until she reached out to grip his arm, and then the pale, skeletal fingers slipped from his face and she saw that they were wet.

"Oh, Clara," he whispered, his voice wavering. He faced her and gathered her hands into his own, staring down at them as he spoke. "You ought to know—" He cleared his throat as if to dislodge the words that were stuck there. "You ought to know that at a recent time in my life, I made declarations of love with great frequency and zeal, as though each utterance would increase the likelihood that I received one in return. It seemed to have the opposite effect, however—and I resolved not to repeat my mistakes."

He looked up at her then, his gaze drawing her in like a pair of amber beacons. "I tell you this so that you may perhaps begin to comprehend the depth of my affection when I say that the love I bear for you, and that you have shown me, far surpasses any previous happiness I have known on this earth."

His words filled her with such warmth, such overwhelming feeling that it seemed as though she might burst into a thousand rays of sunlight. This time, though, she did not cry. She beamed, ear to ear, and threw herself at him with such momentum and speed that he nearly toppled over. He laughed softly into her hair, his arms curling around her, and once she had relaxed into his embrace, they settled in to watch the receding tide.

He did not invite her to touch his face again, but she would not focus on that now. They were on an upward trajectory.

It had been almost six months since Margot's death. In a few short days, the Opera would open for the season. Clara would shed her mourning clothes and slip into color once more. She would devote herself to a new occupation. She would see her love at regular intervals again, and she would gradually fold him into her life and family.

It was time for new beginnings.


	24. Asylum

The Herves-Guillaume Asylum for convalescents after childbirth, as it turned out, was a quiet gem of a building on the north edge of the city's 13th arrondissement. When Clara had stepped out of the coach for her first volunteer shift, she had found herself facing a wide two-story building with a cream-colored facade. An abundance of large, old trees created cozy patches of shade on and around the grounds.

She had been pleasantly surprised by the interior. The facility looked impeccably clean and cheery, with windows everywhere that stretched nearly the full height of the walls. There was one such window in the admissions office where she sat now, facing the unmanned desk, and though it was midday, the September sunlight flooding in through a frame of gold damask curtains still warmed the room tremendously.

Perhaps that explained the expression of the nearby infant whose steel-gray eyes had come to rest on her face. The baby had dark, furrowed eyebrows and solemnly puckered lips that suggested a sort of world-weariness despite only a few days' exposure to life outside the womb.

The face of its mother, who sat in a chair next to Clara, was a sadder, more fatigued echo of the same. She was a slight girl who looked no older than perhaps seventeen, but her face lacked the vibrancy of youth. Her skin was flushed, her lips pale, her eyelids red-rimmed and puffy. Her slight but still-swollen abdomen strained against a cheerless brown skirt and jacket. She shifted the babe in her arms and cast a suspicious sidelong glance at Clara.

The girl and baby had already been seated in the office when Clara was taken there to await Mme. Georges, the directress. At least five minutes of silence had elapsed so far. "What a sweet child," Clara finally said, trying to diminish the awkwardness. "What is he called?"

"Julien," replied the girl. She made a show of adjusting the muslin that loosely bundled the infant, as though to indicate that she was too preoccupied to speak. Clara took the hint and did not question further. Instead, she peered out the window, which overlooked a lovely courtyard shaded by more of the vast old trees, with benches and paths and flowering urns. She watched two women strolling its length together, arms laden with tiny babies, while a third nursed placidly on one of the benches.

"Your bed is ready, Mlle. Faure," came a voice behind her. Startled, she turned to find a petite woman of about forty making her way into the office as she addressed the new mother. "There is a nurse just outside who will show you the way. I do appreciate your patience."

The girl stood and offered a small nod. "Thank you, madame."

Clara watched as the older woman saw Mlle. Faure out the door and closed it behind her. "Mlle. Toussaint, I presume?" she asked, crossing back toward the desk.

"Yes, madame," Clara said.

"Adele Georges." Mme. Georges smoothed her skirts and seated herself at the desk, across from Clara, where she folded her hands atop the surface. "Thank you for waiting, and thank you for being so kind as to volunteer your time today."

"It is my pleasure, madame."

The directress regarded Clara with sharp green eyes, the space between her brows crowded with frown lines. She had a head of thick, coiffed chestnut curls; small cupid's-bow lips; and a near-button nose. Clara might have gone so far as to call her adorable had it not been for the gravitas in the woman's voice and posture. "First things first," she said, "since I could not adequately address this in correspondence, I'm afraid. What are your aims in volunteering here?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What I mean to say, mademoiselle, is that if you are one of the many do-gooders who show up intending to preach to these new mothers on matters surrounding the illegitimacy of their children, then you may as well leave now; there is no place for that here."

"I—no, of course not," Clara stammered, eyes wide. "I would not dream of it."

Mme. Georges' face softened, and she offered a wan but approving smile. "Ah, good. I do tire of intercepting these harpies who think that what a woman needs after giving birth is a sermon on repentance. Shall I give you a tour, then?"

She proceeded to walk Clara through the facility, detailing as they went how the asylum was run. First was the recreation area, which boasted ample seating and various accoutrements for games and cards, knitting and embroidery. Clara was pleased to note the full bookcase and weathered upright piano. Next came the large dormitories, where each room was lined with beds on either side, and each bed was flanked by a bassinet and a nightstand for personal effects.

Clara had been to visit cousins and friends following the arrival of a new baby. Even where there had been fatigue, it had existed alongside a general atmosphere of joy, of gratitude, of promise and hope.

This atmosphere was not that.

It was solemnity. It was fear. It was quiet desperation.

There was affection, too; she could not deny that. Many of the women regarded their infants in a way that she could only hope to understand one day. From a few, however, she picked up on a cold detachment that made her shiver. One young mother with a babe at her breast skewered Clara with an expression of such tired but palpable resentment that the latter immediately looked away.

Three beds down, another nursing woman bore a horrendous black eye that, combined with the scabs on her cheek and bottom lip, told a gruesome story of violence. Across the room, a woman with open sores around her mouth changed a baby's soiled linens. The more she saw, the more Clara's stomach twisted into knots.

By the time they reached their last stop—the dining hall—she was starting to wonder whether she had made a mistake in coming here. She already felt terribly out of place and terribly unhelpful.

"Lunch is set out at twelve-thirty and put away at one-thirty," Mme. Georges told her, gesturing to a buffet table that was empty save for a few baguettes and a pitcher of milk. "Of course, nursing mothers need more sustenance, so we always make bread and milk available. You can help to ensure that those are replenished. I don't suppose you have any cooking experience?"

At this, Clara brightened. "I do, yes, a bit."

Mmes. Georges clapped her hands together. "Oh, wonderful! The cook has been asking for extra help, and most of the ladies who volunteer cannot so much as slice bread!" She gave an indignant snort, and Clara feigned a knowing smile as though she had not been in the same position only months before. "Come," said the older woman. "I shall introduce you, and you can help with lunch."

Twenty minutes later, Clara was setting out cold meatloaf, stewed vegetables and apples, bread and cheese, pitchers of fresh milk. She monitored the dwindling quantities of food as women wandered in and out of the room at their leisure. One woman asked her to hold her baby while she made up a plate, and Clara, realizing that others might be disinclined to ask for help, started offering this service more proactively despite her anxiety in handling the infants.

The hall was empty by one-thirty, and she had just begun to clear the trays of food when the tiny new girl from admissions entered with baby Julien. She moved slowly, hesitantly, and there was something odd about her demeanor that Clara could not quite place. "Hello," she greeted the girl warmly. "Mlle. Faure, is it? Would you like me to hold your son while you get something to eat?"

The girl nodded and handed over the infant. She was paler than Clara remembered, her lips practically colorless, and her hands shook as she reached for a pitcher of milk. Clara wondered how long it had been since she had eaten.

Julien started to squirm in her arms. She began to walk around the room, bouncing him lightly as she had seen her cousins do with their babies, murmuring to him to hush so that his mama could eat.

Suddenly, there was an anguished cry and a loud crash. Clara looked over to find the girl seemingly doubled over in pain, clutching her lower abdomen amid a pool of milk and broken glass. "Mademoiselle?" she called. "Are you all right?" It was obvious that she was not, of course, but in the face of panic it was all Clara could come up with.

The poor girl did not speak, having dissolved into pained sobs, and the crying increased in frequency and hysteria until, finally, she let out a bone-chilling scream and collapsed onto her side, right onto the spilled milk and fragments of glass. The noise set off Julien, who wailed in Clara's arms, and also brought the cook running out of the kitchen. "Oh, dear God in heaven!" cried the gray-haired cook as she made the sign of the cross, and when Clara followed the woman's gaze downward, she saw what had not been there a moment before: blood-red stains, soaking through the brown skirt. The girl writhed and screamed again.

Paralyzed with indecision, Clara could do nothing but stare and gape. Should she put the baby down? Move the girl off of the glass? Get help? Stanch the bleeding?

"We must fetch a nurse," the cook determined, but then there was a commotion at the doorway, and several figures hurried in. They swarmed past Clara and surrounded the girl in a flurry of movement and shouting, and Clara was distantly aware of a baby wailing but all she could do was hone in on the face of the girl, which was so so white with glassy, unfocused eyes; and then someone relieved her of the crying bundle in her arms but now there was blood mixing with the milk on the wood floor, and the room was spinning, and she could hear only her pulse throbbing inside her head, and she felt herself moving back and away until finally she was out of the room, and she ran.

She ran until she was outside, and then she vomited into the hedges.

She could not go back in. There was only one place she could even fathom going to now, and with the coachman not due to collect her for another three hours at least, she managed to hail a cab amid her stupor. The driver helped her into the carriage—a good thing, for she nearly tripped and fell headfirst—and asked for her destination. There was some sort of disconnect between her brain and her mouth, such that she was barely cognizant of voicing a response: "The Palais Garnier, please."

* * *

Clara did not even remember the ride that took her up across the Seine and through the heart of the city. She was only vaguely aware of stepping out of a cab in front of the Opera, of the driver demanding payment, and once she had handed over an apparently satisfactory handful of money she made her way, trancelike, to the Rue Scribe.

Her heart sank when she found both boats docked at the lake entrance, which meant that Erik was likely out. Still, she slipped into her little blue one and rowed across the placid waters to his house.

It was vacant, as expected. She checked each room to make sure. Then she helped herself to a thick wool blanket and wound it tightly around her torso as she sank into the drawing-room loveseat, feeling miserable and lonely and defeated and so, so lost.

She had not felt this way since that long-ago night on the bridge, when Erik had manifested himself as her prickly guardian angel. Now, here she was, drowning again, and she needed his nearness more than ever.

Still holding the blanket around her, she kicked off her shoes and padded into his room. It was still dark and somber, save for the cream satin that lined the coffin, which sat open in the center of the room just as she remembered it.

Without so much as a care for what she was about to do, Clara climbed into the casket.

It was, to her surprise, comfortable. The lining was plush, and the satin pillow was smooth and cool against her cheek when she lay down. It smelled like him, and she breathed in his scent until her body stopped shaking.

The reality of what had just happened finally gradually sank in, and she began to cry. She cried for ages, until her eyes hurt and her throat was raw and she could hardly breathe through her nose. She felt shock and grief and horror, but the most pervasive emotion of them all, the one that kept her sobbing, was a sense of utter shame and self-loathing.

When she could no longer cry, she simply lay there, wide-eyed, as the afternoon's events replayed themselves in her mind.

It was indescribable, the relief she felt, when she saw Erik's lanky silhouette darken the door frame. He stood there in observation for a moment or two. "For all I have dreamed about finding a woman in my bed," he said, "I never expected it to be quite so...unsettling."

It was an attempt at humor, she knew, but she did not have it in her to smile or reply.

"Clara?" He drew nearer, and the closer he got, the more urgent his tone became. "Clara, dear, you must tell me what has happened." He was at her side now, clutching her hand with icy fingers. She parted her lips to speak but could not find the words.

She heard him exhale, and then his arms were sliding underneath her, lifting her out of the coffin. "For heaven's sake, girl, I cannot address you while you lie in that box of death."

His hypocrisy incensed her enough that she forced herself to respond. "Now you understand how it feels," she muttered into his chest, and at the sound of her voice he pulled her to him tighter and pressed his lips firmly against the crown of her head.

He carried her into the other bedroom, blanket and all, and deposited her on the Louis-Philippe bed there. Then he lay down beside her.

"Where were you?" she croaked. "It's the middle of the day."

"Up in the opera house, spying on the new managers." He began brushing tendrils of hair from her face. "Now tell me everything, my sweet fawn."

So she recounted the events of the afternoon, from her first moments with the ill-fated girl in the admissions office up to her cowardly flight from the premises. "It was awful," she said, her voice cracking. "There was so much blood. And the screaming! And I did nothing but stand there until someone took the baby from me."

"You were in shock, Clara," he said quietly.

"Everyone else took action," she countered. "And then I left without a word! Oh, how can I possibly go back after that?"

Erik had been holding her hand throughout much of the discussion, and now he began trailing fingertips across it, as he so often did, as if to commit its topography to memory. "There is a Danish proverb," he murmured, "that goes, 'He knows the water best who has waded through it.'" The pad of his thumb grazed her knuckles. "You are only ankle-deep in the sea of life, my little fawn."

"Like a coward," she said with a sigh.

"No!" he replied sharply, his fingers halting in their exploration. "A coward would not have left the shore." She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a fingertip at her lips. "To be where you are," he said, more quietly now, "to be with _Erik_ —that requires courage. And you have it in droves, Clara Toussaint. If you doubt that, then you have not been paying attention these past six months."

She watched him, waiting for his sincerity to falter, but it did not; she was left to consider his words. He took up his exploration of her hand once more.

"Why did you give me that charity directory?" she finally asked him.

"I thought that it might help you realize who you are," he said, "and what you are meant to do. And perhaps, right now, you do not know what that is and I do know know what that is, but I will be _damned_ if I let you waste away among those crusty, bloviating society puppets in the meantime."

At this, Clara smiled, and then she found that she could not _stop_ smiling.

"Ah," he said sorely. "I amuse you, do I?"

She shook her head. "No. I mean...yes, you do, but—I just—" She smiled even more broadly and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I love you, is all."

"I see," he said, snaking a thin arm around her waist, and every last inch of her warmed to his touch as he drew her closer. His lips were all but touching hers as he murmured, "Well, if I am to be your source of amusement, then a few tokens of gratitude would not be unwelcome."

She needed no further convincing. She brushed her lower lip along his, baiting him, and then his mouth was on hers, warm and willing. Their movements were deep but measured, an exchange of mutual respect, and that somehow made it easier for her to pull away from him, eventually, to ask, "I have to go back to the asylum, don't I?"

He looked at her without pretense. "It is your choice."

"Yes," she said, hesitantly. "Yes, I think I do. I suppose that I will go in the morning."

He gave her an approving nod. "And then I will see you in the afternoon," he said, his lips curling back into a mischievous smile, "for our 'first' piano lesson."


	25. A Family Affair

Clara returned to the women's asylum in the morning fearing the worst: the loss of a young mother's life, and an infant made an orphan.

As though sensing this, the first thing that Mme. Georges did was take her to the dormitories. There, she pointed to the girl lying abed in the corner: bandaged and unconscious and so very pale, but breathing. Her baby boy slept soundly in the bassinet next to her. "We have found a wet nurse for the child while his mother recovers," the directress said quietly. "She is very lucky, given the quantity of blood that she lost."

Hearing this, Clara felt ten times lighter.

"I am not sure that I could have forgiven myself, had she not pulled through," she confessed in Mme. Georges' office afterward. "Madame, I am truly mortified by how I reacted, both in doing nothing to help her and in running away, and I understand if you do not wish me to stay on."

"Please just call me Adele. All of the others do." The older woman laced her fingers together atop her desk and smiled warmly at Clara. "Do you know, I once saw my late husband pass out at the sight of blood? We cannot control how our bodies react in times of crisis; we can only prepare ourselves as much as possible and hope for the best.

"I did not prepare you, mademoiselle," she continued, "and for that I apologize. I do want you to continue your time here, and I intend for you to learn about and aid in the facility operations, in time. For now, though, perhaps a less overwhelming task is in order?"

Clara released the breath she had not realized she'd been holding. "Thank you, madame. I am happy to defer to your judgment."

Adele smiled. "Follow me, then." As they left the office and walked two doors down, she said, "You demonstrated great proficiency in correspondence when you wrote me this summer. Perhaps you would be interested in assisting with mine? I am still dreadfully behind."

Clara was more than happy to comply, and Adele showed her into another, smaller office—sans window—where she could work. It was unoccupied but cluttered with ledgers and other documents. "I had a cousin assisting with the bookkeeping," the directress explained as she cleared some desk space for Clara. "Alas, he and his wife have just left the city to rear their firstborn. Thus, I have more responsibility than ever—but you have your own desk, my dear!" She grinned and patted the shiny wood surface. "Have a seat."

Clara slipped into the desk chair as instructed, and Adele set her up with everything she would need to write both thank-you letters and solicitations to past and potential donors. "And soon," she said, "you can help with the invitations to our first-ever charity ball in November. Which you are, of course, wholly encouraged to attend."

"Well _that_ sounds exciting!"

"Oh, yes. There is a judge on our board of advisors who happens to be good friends with the new managers of the Opera, and he has arranged for the ball to be held in the grand foyer of the Palais! Isn't that marvelous?"

"Indeed," Clara murmured, knowing that Erik would find out soon enough if he had not already. How would he cope with her attendance at a dance without costumes?

She pushed the thought aside. There was time to mull it over, and these letters were not going to write themselves. Adele saw herself out, and Clara set to work.

* * *

She arrived home just in time to change and join her aunt in the drawing-room ahead of her lesson with Erik. She tried to read, but her nerves would not permit it, and it was with equal parts relief and anxiety that she reacted to the butler's entrance.

"I beg your pardon, madame," he said. "There is a Monsieur Giovanni here for mademoiselle's piano lesson."

Erik had chosen the surname in her presence, the night they drank champagne on the beach, after she had finally asked him about his last name. She had been wondering how she should refer to him in her family's presence and had balked when he'd claimed to have none. "I did possess one, once," he said with a shrug. "We were separated long ago."

Giovanni was the one he had landed on for the foreseeable future. Clara did not like it with his first name, that pairing of discordant sounds and origins, but he had vaguely alluded to it honoring an old mentor; she could not deny him that.

"Send him in, please, Bertrand," said Céleste, and she stood and faced the doorway to receive Erik. Clara, too, rose to her feet, but it was her aunt whom she watched with growing trepidation. Had she not, she might have missed the gasp that Céleste emitted when Erik entered the room: the smallest and quickest inhalation of breath that one could produce and still consider a gasp, perhaps, but a gasp nonetheless.

Clara turned to Erik now, trying to see him as her aunt might. He wore his usual ensemble: black trousers and swallow-tailed coat, black waistcoat, white shirt, white cravat, black hat and shoes, everything clean and pressed and tailored magnificently to his tall and reedy frame. His arms seemed slightly too long for his body, and with his gaunt fingers extending even further, he was reminiscent of a dark and upright mantis.

The black mask covered all but his sallow lips and chin; his eyes were in shadow. She had cautioned her aunt and father about the mask, of course, claiming to have been alerted to it in the course of seeking a recommendation. Likely a traumatic childhood accident, she told them, was what she had heard. But to see the mask in person was a different thing entirely: a striking mark of otherness. And the scant bits of exposed skin around his face and neck were even paler in the daylight, again suggesting the supernatural: a beguiling vampire, perhaps, or a debonair skeleton.

He moved with catlike grace despite his height and length of limb, setting a black leather valise beside the piano as he entered. Then he surrendered his hat to the butler, splayed hands rising to slick back his newly exposed hair.

She waited while Céleste found her voice and exchanged pleasantries with Erik. She almost laughed at the pair of them together: the man of bone and darkness towering over her diminutive aunt, with her soft and rounded features, looking almost like a confection in layers of pink-and-gold ruffles and lace.

Finally, her aunt gestured in her direction. "My niece, Clara Toussaint."

Erik stepped forward and bowed politely. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle," he said, his voice as dulcet as ever.

She could not be sure given the darkness of his eyes, but it seemed to her that as he came back up from his bow, his gaze lingered on her a beat too long. She wondered whether her appearance shocked him as much as it had her earlier that day; it was the first time in six months—nearly the entire time he had known her—that she had worn any measure of bold, saturated color. She had chosen a frock of Persian blue silk, the high-collared center panel of the bodice inlaid with pearly white sprays of wheat and florals, knowing precisely how well the blue set off her hair and eyes.

"Please, do begin," Céleste said, gesturing to the piano, and as Clara and Erik moved toward it, she turned to address the butler. "Bertrand, Monsieur Verne will be joining us for supper this evening. Please see to it that there is a place for him at the table."

Clara and Erik stiffened simultaneously.

She had not seen nor heard from Isaac Verne in at least six weeks, since he had left the coast, and she realized with a pang of guilt that she had never bothered to follow up with Erik regarding the safe return of the man's funds. She had to admit that she had, in fact, taken advantage of his absence; it had been far too easy to enjoy the rest of the summer without the worry of his interference.

She risked a glance at Erik's face and saw tension edging his jawline, but it dissolved quickly. She was not sure what to make of that.

"Mademoiselle?" he said, beckoning to the piano bench with an open palm, and she snapped out of her reverie to take her seat.

Céleste, meanwhile, crossed the room to sit with her embroidery in her favorite armchair. Clara had warned Erik that her aunt would be present for the lessons, as propriety demanded, but he had seemed unperturbed. Even now he remained cool and self-assured.

She watched him in admiration as he withdrew a slim black portfolio from his valise, flicking through the sheet music within, and she began to wonder what on earth she had been thinking. How could her family _not_ notice how in love she was? She was perpetually drawn to him, like a blossom coaxed to unfurl and follow the sun across the sweeping arc of the sky.

"Bach's Invention No. 11," he said, placing the sheet music on the stand before her. "I will have you know, mademoiselle, that I intend to teach theory as well as application." This was hardly news to her, as he had often expressed his displeasure at how little theory she recalled from her prior lessons, so she guessed that it was meant for her aunt's ears. In the meantime, she kept her hands in her lap, knowing from past experience that to place her hands on the keys without first examining the music was to invoke his irritation.

"Please identify the key," he said brusquely, a palpable shift into instructor mode.

She found herself immediately following his lead, ever the willing student, once again made nervous by his unapologetic meticulousness and not wanting to disappoint. "G minor?"

"Correct. Now take us through the scale, both hands, two octaves."

She disliked minor scales—minor keys in general, really—and he knew it. She wondered whether this was his attempt to overcome her aversion, knowing that she could not protest in front of her aunt. She pursed her lips and played the two octaves as instructed.

"Again," he commanded. "Do concentrate on evenness of tone and rhythm this time."

She bit the inside of her lip and played the scale once more. After that, he led her through arpeggios and chord progressions. Then, finally, she was permitted to try the Bach. From the corner of her eye, Clara could see her aunt across the room, embroidering but utterly failing to conceal her interest in the proceedings. In fact, Céleste seemed to straighten in her chair each time that Erik spoke.

The first run-through of the song was tedious. Erik slowed her tempo to a crawl so that she could work through the difficult passages, and every so often he would lean forward with a pencil to scratch suggested fingerings above the notes, his spindly numbers an eerie echo of his frame. The first time that he did so, his tailcoat brushed against Clara's shoulder and his face was the closest it had been to hers that afternoon, and the teacher-student spell was broken. She felt a sharp pang deep in her abdomen: desire, like a bolt of lightning, a white-hot awakening from within.

She had not predicted how torturous it would be, this sense of near-worship that she felt while observing him in his element, in conflict with her inability to touch him. Even the more innocent markers of their relationship could not be enjoyed here: the lingering gazes; the soft murmurs; the easy, muted laughter. She swallowed.

As though he'd heard, his head shifted ever so slightly in her direction. "Try the bar again, mademoiselle," he said, his voice gentler now.

As was his habit, he softened as the lesson progressed, as he became more invested in the music and in coaxing improvements out of her. His passion was obvious, infectious even—though she could never feel for music what he did. It seemed to live inside of him. Clara imagined that if he were to open a vein, a fugue would come spilling out.

At the end of the hour, Erik detailed how he wished her to practice. "Thank you for permitting me to instruct you, mademoiselle," he said with a short bow, "and I hope that we might continue our lessons." Then he turned to Céleste. "Madame, forgive me, but I wonder whether you might allow me to stay and tune the piano? At no extra cost to you, of course. I am afraid that it needs work."

Clara stared at him, instantly suspicious, but he paid her no heed.

"But we had it tuned just last October!" Céleste said.

"Ah, well, once a year is the recommendation. And it was a rather humid summer."

"Well, I suppose that I can hardly protest if you are offering your services. Very well then, Monsieur Giovanni."

"How long does it take to tune a piano, monsieur?" asked Clara dryly, signaling that she was onto him.

He offered her a small, innocuous smile. "I expect two hours or so."

"In that case," said Céleste, "you may as well stay for supper, if it pleases you."

Erik put a hand to his breast. "Ah, madame, you are too kind. It would be an honor." He turned to peer down at where Clara still sat at the piano, and she did not even need to see his eyes to know that they were positively gleaming. "Forgive me, mademoiselle, but I must ask that you vacate the bench so that I may finish my work in time for dinner."

Inside, Clara seethed at his audacity. As though a successful bid for a meal with Isaac Verne was not enough, he was practically flaunting it! "Ah, but monsieur, do you not need tools to tune the piano?" she reminded him.

"I am well prepared," he said, and he withdrew a slim lacquered box from his attache and unlatched it so that she could see the handful of foreign-looking implements nestled in its red velvet lining.

She realized that there was nothing else that she could say in present company to deter him. Making certain that her aunt could not see, she shot him a look of reproach and slipped away from the piano.

"Mademoiselle Toussaint," he said quietly, and she pivoted to face him again. "You made excellent progress today, so much that I suspect you have remained disciplined in your practice despite the recent absence of an instructor. Am I correct?"

"Yes, monsieur."

He nodded. "That is...commendable. I do look forward to sharing your company this evening." With that, he turned his attention back to the little tool box.

Damn him. He did know how to make her heart swell.

* * *

As tempting as it was to watch Erik work, Clara excused herself to her room, claiming that the sounds coming from the piano made it difficult to concentrate on anything. In reality, she needed some time to clear her head, to put aside thoughts of the impending meal with her two suitors before she was reduced to a bundle of nerves.

She somehow managed to read until it was time to dress for dinner. Juliette helped her into a gown of rich plum satin, freshly coiffed her hair, and inserted a delicate gold comb adorned with leaves and vines. The maid seemed more chipper than usual, and Clara suspected that she, too, was happy to be working with color and ornamentation again.

Finally, she made her way back to the drawing-room to await Isaac Verne's arrival and hopefully provide some relief for Erik. She was stunned at the doorway to find not only Isaac sitting there among her aunt and piano instructor, but also her father.

"Ah, Clara," he said, motioning for her to enter. "Glad you could join us. We were just getting acquainted with Monsieur—"

"Giovanni," Erik intoned, as though he could hardly be bothered with a man who could not remember his name.

Clara quickly crossed the room to exchange greetings with Isaac before she joined her aunt on the loveseat. He wore a burgundy waistcoat and cravat underneath his black jacket, and the color brought out the ruddiness in his cheeks, the soft gray of his eyes, the russet highlights of his brown hair. He was clean-shaven and fresh-faced as always, and it occurred to her that he really was quite handsome, objectively speaking.

Subjectively speaking, he was all wrong. Everything right—for her, at any rate—was sitting opposite him and watching her every move. When she smoothed her skirts at the hip, the fingers of the masked man's right hand twitched.

"Forgive me," Henri said, with forced politeness, and Erik's focus was pulled back to her father. "I believe that I have forgotten your credentials. Where is it that you studied?"

"The Royal Conservatory of Brussels," Erik replied. "Perhaps you have heard of it?"

Céleste, now in a sage-green frock with sprays of gold lace at the cuffs and collar, balked. " _Heard_ of it? Why, it is one of the most prestigious music schools in the world! What other instruments can you play?"

"Anything that madame wishes."

She clapped her hands together in delight. "How wonderful! And I can tell from your voice that you are a singer as well, are you not?"

He hesitated. "I...do possess that ability, yes."

Clara's eyes widened. He did not seek out her gaze.

"Oh, you must treat us to a performance!" Céleste demanded. "After supper, perhaps."

"With all due respect, madame, I am happy to play the piano or any other instrument to your heart's content, but I no longer sing for an audience."

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Clara could tell from her aunt's furrowed brow that she was thinking hard about how to tactfully question him regarding this revelation. But Bertrand stepped in to announce that dinner was served, and Erik was spared for the time being.

The party moved into the dining room, where Henri sat at the head of his table, Celeste to his right and Isaac to his left. Clara was seated next to Isaac and across from Erik, who looked as though he was trying to fold in on himself while the woman next to him gestured perhaps too broadly as she talked. Wine was poured and napkins unfurled.

"It is good to see you again, dear boy," said Henri to Isaac as the soup was brought out. "We had heard you were a victim of theft!"

"I am afraid that you heard correctly, monsieur. My entire account, emptied in one fell swoop! The bank had absolutely no explanation for why my account alone was targeted, nor how it was done."

"There were no other funds stolen?" asked Céleste. "How very curious."

"That is hardly the strangest part," Isaac replied. "It was all returned four weeks later. Every last cent. And again, no explanation from the bank."

"Time to find another bank, perhaps?" said Erik, without looking up from his soup. He had been playing at eating it, of course, but no one besides Clara had noticed.

Isaac stared at him inscrutably for a moment. "Yes. Yes, I suppose so." He paused to take in a spoonful of soup, a sip of wine. "So tell me, Monsieur Giovanni, are you an opera man?"

"One might say so."

"I presume that you have seen the program for the upcoming season, then?" Here Isaac turned to Clara and explained, "There are a great number of crowd favorites returning; I imagine that our musician friend here must be thrilled."

"Quite the contrary," Erik replied, the acid practically dripping from his tongue.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Céleste was kind enough to inquire, "And why might that be, monsieur?"

"I believe it is the responsibility of the Opera to showcase works of importance and innovation, and this season's program is lacking in both."

Isaac chuckled. "Surely you are joking! Of course the productions are important. Audiences love them."

Erik set down his spoon and replied, emphatically, " _Les Huguenots_? _La Juive_? At this point they are little more than candy for the average theatergoer, a surplus of glamour and excess over substance. People go to the Opera to be enlightened, monsieur."

"Nonsense," said Isaac, defensiveness creeping into his voice. "People go to the Opera to be entertained."

"Perhaps they believe that," Erik said, "but the real arbiters of theater and music, of _art_ , know it to be untrue, and the showcasing of such stale repertoire serves only to coddle the masses into accepting the status quo."

Isaac opened his mouth to retort, but Henri, his face turned to Erik with solemn and genuine interest, held up a hand to stop him. "Please," he said. "Do elaborate."

"The stage has always been a platform for political and social change," Erik said. "Opera, theater, art, literature: these are the necessary tools for modeling empathy, for calling out corruption, for inciting change and sparking hope. Any program director worth his salt knows this and does not base a program solely on the whims of the patrons. This season has an utter dearth of meaningful operas as well as new and innovative compositions."

"Compositions such as yours?" Isaac bit out, and a chill settled over the room. "I can only assume, given your talents and your strong opinions on the subject, that you think yourself a composer. Perhaps you are bitter that your own work has not graced the stage?"

Clara could hardly believe her ears; she had not considered the man capable of harboring even a drop of vitriol until now.

"I _know_ myself to be a composer," Erik replied, the hostility in his voice now evident. Clara suddenly noticed that his hand was tucked into his tailcoat, and she had a horrible vision of his fingers closing around the Punjab lasso. "But no," he continued, "I have nothing I wish to be performed. I simply desire that the managers do their job."

"Well," said Isaac, taking a too-large gulp of wine, "we shall have to agree to disagree on this matter."

"And you, mademoiselle?" Erik's voice was softer now as he turned to Clara. "What are your thoughts?"

The others blinked at her as though only just remembering that she was at the table.

"Oh," she said, eyes wide with anxiety. "Well, I...I am not as well-versed in opera and the arts as you, monsieur; I do enjoy some of the productions that you loathe, I am afraid." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a smug smile playing at the corners of Isaac's lips. "That said," she continued, "I have been reading an awful lot of late, and it seems to me that what makes a work of literature 'great' is that success in challenging one's way of thinking. Such books would not adhere to our memory so fiercely if they did not rouse some sense of unrest, don't you think?" Erik nodded, urging her on.

"By that extension," she said, "then I suppose that each great artist—or composer, or writer, or performer—is a visionary. He sees not only the world around him, but also what it ought to be. He creates to enlighten and not just to entertain. What is art—performance or otherwise—without meaning?"

The table was quiet. Clara felt her cheeks warm, and she took a hasty sip of wine to signal the end of her pontificating.

Finally, her father nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I am rather inclined to agree with you, Clara."

She did not even have to look up to feel the affection radiating from Erik's place at the table, and she smiled the tiniest of smiles into her soup.

* * *

Erik departed shortly after supper; Isaac stayed only long enough to enjoy a cigar and brandy with Henri. Once he had gone, however, the Toussaints found themselves convening in the drawing-room.

"Well," Céleste said, fanning herself as she slumped against a chair. "That was a most interesting evening. I dare say, Monsieur Giovanni's presence adds a certain something to the conversation."

"There is something off-putting about that man," Henri said, fiddling with his pocket-watch from the comfort of an armchair. "Abrasiveness, perhaps? Not to mention the unsettling mask."

"I find his candor wholly refreshing," said Céleste, and Clara felt a surge of affection for her aunt. "And that voice of his! I have never heard anything like it. I do wish he would have sung for us. But he is to be your instructor, Clara, not ours. What do you think?"

She made a show of mulling it over and worded her reply carefully. "I think," she said, "that I would learn a lot from him."

Céleste looked to her brother and said, placatingly, "He _was_ a very effective teacher, Henri."

"Fine. Just do not make a habit of inviting him to dinner after each lesson. He is a paid employee, not a family friend."

* * *

When he came to her balcony that night, she was reading in bed, the lamplight low. She had not expected his visit, but neither was she surprised. She marked her page, set the book on the nightstand, and sat up straighter. He crossed the room but stopped at the foot of her bed, placing distance between them.

That was perhaps not the worst thing, Clara decided.

She was no stranger to what ultimately transpired between a man and a woman in the marriage bed—Margot, ever curious and sometimes flat-out racy, had seen to that—but the details had never quite filled themselves in.

Until Erik, that was, and the alluring intoxication that his presence induced. How quickly their physical intimacy had developed, despite their mutual inexperience! Now that she knew what it was like to crave one's touch, one's taste, she could easily understand how someone might find their way onto that slippery slope down from chivalry: a kiss here, a caress there; building warmth and urgency; the need to touch skin, to be as close as possible.

She was used to ending her nights in Erik's embrace, and she loved every minute of it. But most nights, she had to distract herself from the fact that it would, eventually, not sustain her. It would not be enough that he was the last person she saw before sleeping; she would need him to be there the whole night, to be the first person she saw after waking. The beginning and the end of the day and everything in between.

Clara shivered and pushed the thought from her mind, focusing instead on the shadowy man with his pale fingers curled around her bedpost. "Are you quite satisfied, then, now that you have sabotaged our dinner with Monsieur Verne?" she asked.

"Sabotage!" he repeated in mock surprise. "Such a strong word for a rather innocuous investigation, don't you think? But, yes, I am satisfied. I have determined that he is not a threat."

"Well hallelujah!" Clara quipped, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes as well. "You have concluded that you could best an average man in some sort of physical altercation. We are saved."

He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Sarcasm does not suit you, my dear. And I hardly needed to meet Verne to know how easily I could slip the lasso around his throat, though I did discover that he has a rather thin neck—you would hardly know it, not with his cravat and his collar pushed up so high as to turn him into a foppish giraffe, but—"

"Erik!"

"Yes. Sorry. When I say he is not a threat, Clara, I mean that he is no match for your intelligence and curiosity. You would tire of him in due course." He let his hand drop from the bedpost and walked slowly along the bed to where she sat by the headboard, his fingertips trailing up the quilt as he moved.

Her pulse quickened. "And you know my desires so well, do you?"

"If I am mistaken," he said quietly, "then please do enlighten me." He towered above her now, and as if sensing her unease at this advantage, he lowered himself to sit beside her on the mattress. His amber eyes burned bright. "What are your desires, my sweet fawn?"

 _Oh, so many things, my love._ "An apology," she whispered.

"Ah," he said. "I suspected as much." He held up his hands, showing her his open and empty palms, and with his right hand he reached out to brush aside a wisp of her hair as he so often did. When he retracted his hand, however, it held a single pink peony. He extended it to her, and she took it between pinched fingers, mouth agape.

"I truly am sorry," he said. He cupped a hand to the side of her face and began to trace her lips with the pad of his thumb. "I saw an opening, and I seized it without thought of consequence. After decades of looking after no one but myself, I am still learning to live otherwise, I'm afraid."

Clara twirled the peony stem between her fingers and frowned. "You cannot just _magic_ a flower every time I am cross with you."

"The very fact that you stay with me, knowing that future transgressions will happen, ensures that I will work even harder against them." His thumb finished its tour of her dry lips, but his hand held fast at the side of her head as his voice dropped. "Please," he said, "let me kiss you," and his eyes positively burned for her.

Breathless, all she could do was nod.

Erik pulled her face to his, and their mouths met eagerly. Had it been only one day since their last kiss?

This one was brief, though. She heard the shudder of his breath as he pulled away, and she wondered whether he, too, was now realizing the importance of pacing. He had only just met her family, after all, and—oh! "Why did you never tell me you could sing?" she blurted out.

He blinked at her in surprise. "It never seemed warranted."

"Did you mean what you said, that you do not sing for others?"

"I did, my fawn, but perhaps I will sing for you and you alone. Not now, but someday."

"And did you really attend the Royal Conservatory of Brussels?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I am entirely self-taught."

Clara glowered at him. "You had best hope that my father does not decide to look into your credentials."

"Ah, but Erik Giovanni is in the conservatory records as having attended."

She stared at him for a moment. "Fine. But your letter of recommendation—"

"—is a forgery attributed to a faculty member who recently expired, and I am afraid that the news of his passing has not yet reached our dear Monsieur Giovanni. Really, Clara, your lack of confidence is disheartening. This is hardly the first time that I have had to fabricate an identity."

She sighed. "Sometimes I think that I ought to be more frightened of you than I am."

"Ah, my fawn, is that not what I have been saying since day one?" His yellow eyes narrowed into mischievous slits. "But I now suspect that you are drawn to my cunning."

"Oh, hardly!" she protested, giving his shoulder a gentle shove. He caught her wrist and pulled her to him, lowering his face until she could feel his breath on her lips.

"If that is the case," he said, his voice a husky shell of its normal timbre, "then you will not be at all tempted to kiss me when I tell you that, tomorrow, Monsieur Verne will be summoned to Rome on business."

She glared at him for a full five seconds. "Damnation," she finally whispered, and she crushed her lips against his.


	26. Defender

It was nearing late October, when many of the treetops in the Tuileries and along the Seine looked as though they had been hand-dipped in molten gold, before Clara was finally able to get together with both Erik and Nadir again. The nights had begun to cool considerably, and she took to wearing her favorite cloak, a soft mantle of camel-colored wool and gold silk embroidery.

She could not stay out as late these days, not without the threat of drowsiness the following day, and so Erik often came to her room or took her for brief strolls along the river. Even then, she became increasingly more nervous about the prospect of being caught. Her worry seemed directly proportional to the depth of her feelings for him.

But she missed Erik's home, and she missed Nadir, and so she finally arranged for the three of them to meet one night. They did not start as late as they had in the past, and she considered herself lucky to escape the house without being accosted.

They ran through their usual routine of conversation and wine (or tea, for Nadir) and cards. At some point late in the night, she and Nadir retired to the loveseat while Erik played his violin in the corner: not for their entertainment, but because he must, because the music that flowed through vein and muscle needed a release. The bow became an extension of his arm, and the violin—was it possible to be jealous of an instrument?—was lovingly nestled under his chin, flanking his bony shoulder, creating a breathtaking showcase of sharp elbows and wiry arms. With his hand clutching the neck and working furiously at the strings, a taut pull of skin revealed four distinct tendons, splayed from wrist to knuckle like a web.

It was all she could do not to throw herself at him—in theory, at least. In practice, she was far too tired and not entirely certain that she could peel herself from the sofa. She had been working longer and more frequent shifts lately: nothing so demanding as full-time employment, but much more than her body and mind were accustomed to. It was enough that Céleste had begun fretting over her, expressing concerns about the possibility of cosmetic issues like worry lines and puffiness. But Clara would not— _could_ not—stop, not now, not when there was so much need. And, she had to admit, there was a sort of natural high that came with feeling useful and accomplished, second only to being in love.

"How are the piano lessons going?" Nadir asked quietly.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," she told him. "Erik has managed to travel to and from our house a handful of times now without incident, though I found out that he takes a cab to do so."

He nodded and rubbed his dark beard, as was his habit. "Yes, the carriage keeps his face in shadow. And your family? They are not averse to his presence?"

"I dare say that my aunt is infatuated with him," she replied. "She has not missed a lesson, and when we are through, she peppers him with questions in an attempt to draw out his stay."

Nadir's resulting chuckle was soft and deep. "I can only imagine how uncomfortable that must make him."

Her gaze flicked back to where Erik still cradled the violin, and she smiled warmly. "Yet still he indulges her," she said.

"He does it for you."

She nodded sleepily. "And it makes me love him all the more."

"What of your father, then?" he inquired.

"He is seldom there for lessons. The one time that he did drop in, he spent much of the time staring at Erik coldly. I do not understand his hostility in the slightest, Nadir; Erik has done nothing to provoke him."

"He has captured your interest," the Persian replied. "Perhaps your father knows."

Clara frowned. He couldn't, could he? Not when they had been so careful. No, she would have to think about it more, some other time when she was not so, so tired. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she gave in and closed them. A few seconds of rest would not hurt.

A warm hand came to rest on her arm, shaking it gently. She opened her eyes to find that it was Nadir's, and that she was now angled toward him with her head lying on his shoulder.

Erik's golden eyes peered down at her. In response to her drowsy and evident confusion, he reported, "You fell asleep on the daroga, my dear." He offered a hand to help her up. "Come, let us get you home."

"So sorry, Nadir," she mumbled as she was hoisted from the gentleman's side.

"No worries," he said, and he stood to leave as well. "I am happy to be of service, even if it is as a pillow."

"Regardless," Erik interjected, wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, "I would prefer that you delegate that responsibility to me, Clara, should the need arise again."

"But you are so _bony_ ," she said in mock complaint, and when his sober expression did not change, she grinned and stretched up to kiss him. "Bony and perfect," she whispered into his ear. He said nothing, but he curled an arm around her waist.

"Ah, young love!" said Nadir wistfully.

"I hardly qualify as young," Erik grumbled. "Why are you still here?"

The Persian ignored his grousing. "I assumed that I was to escort Clara home."

"Ah. Thank you for the offer, then, but I think I should prefer to do so tonight."

"As you wish." Nadir donned his hat, Erik his hat and cloak, and the three of them walked down to the two boats moored outside the house.

"Shall I row?" Erik asked Clara, nodding toward the blue one.

She shook her head. " _My_ boat."

He put his palms up in teasing deference and then helped her aboard, seating himself in the bow while she took up the oars. Nadir stepped into the other vessel and cast off beside them.

"Daroga!" Erik called out jovially as they made their way across the lake. "Does this not remind you of our first journey together, when you put me on an overcrowded barge down the Volga River like a crate of tea?"

"There were no steamer passages to be had on short notice, you great snob," Nadir called back.

"And to think," said Erik to Clara, "that this was part of his campaign to get me to Persia."

"It was successful, was it not?" the daroga pointed out.

"Only because I was tired of Russia and I pitied you."

The daroga slowed his strokes so that Clara could catch up and row alongside him. "I know you say that in jest, my friend," he said, "but we both know that I did, in fact, make for a sorry chief of police."

"Come now," said Erik. "You fulfilled your post without dying, and you netted the best architect-cum-assassin your shah had ever seen. Surely that counts for something?"

Nadir smiled and shook his head as he leaned back to pull the oars. "I would have been just as content, if not more so, to sit around pushing paper all day. I was quite good with numbers, you know."

They were coming up on the opposite shore, and as Clara worked to beach her boat, an idea coalesced in her mind.

"Daroga," she said on their walk to ground-level, "have you ever considered donating some of your time to a cause?" She held her skirts in one hand and gripped Erik's hand with the other, as her penchant for tripping in the dark passages had somehow only increased as of late.

Nadir had been leading the way with a lantern in hand, and here he briefly turned to glance at her with open curiosity. "I suppose I have considered it more broadly," he said, turning his back to them once more, "but the opportunity never quite presented itself. I will admit, I ought to have been more proactive in seeking it out."

"And if I told you that an opportunity had perhaps presented itself, would you grant me an audience?"

"Of course, Clara. Anything."

"Can you meet me at the asylum tomorrow afternoon?" she entreated. "Say, one o'clock?"

"Consider it done."

Erik said nothing, but he squeezed her hand as they continued walking.

At the Rue Scribe exit, she and Erik bid their friend farewell before they circled to the front of the Palais at the Avenue de l'Opéra, the area still abuzz with lingering activity from the night's performance. Erik swiftly hired a cab to bear them southeast to her home in Le Marais.

He watched her from the opposite seat of the carriage, his eyes burning bright in the pockets of shadow between street lamps. When he finally spoke, his voice of quiet spun silk was close and clear despite the clamor of horse hooves and cab wheels just outside. "Tell me, my dear, do you plan to attend the charity ball at the Palais?"

Her eyes widened, and she looked down at her hands. "Ah. So you found out about that."

"I am aware of everything that transpires within my opera house."

"I know," she said, "and I had intended to bring it up. I just...got sidetracked." She toyed with her fingernails. "And yes, it is generally expected that I will attend."

"Good."

She looked up at him in mild alarm. "You know that you cannot go, right?" she implored. "It is by invitation only."

He smiled his unsettling smile of mischief and cunning. "Ah, Clara, it is as though you barely know me at all."

"I was trying to appeal to your sense of morality," she said, "and don't you give me that smug look as if you have none, Erik _Giovanni_ , because we both know that to be patently false."

Erik's soft, low chuckle set her insides aflame. "As much as it amuses me to be chastised with a fake surname, you may rest assured that no one shall see me at the ball."

She relaxed against her seat, exhaling quietly, and then replied, "Good. Thank you."

"That does not mean I won't be there."

She glared. "You are incorrigible."

"Why, thank you."

They settled into a comfortable silence, and Clara gazed out the carriage window, trying to identify buildings and landmarks in the gaslight. When the cab rolled past the Place de la République, she could make out the new monument at the center of the square, with its central figure of Marianne, lady of the republic, raising an olive branch to the sky. The white gypsum statue was slated to be replaced by a final bronze cast, but she rather liked the way the yellow October moon illuminated this one, with Marianne glowing like a ghost of peace.

A moment later, Erik crossed the cab to sit beside her. "What are you thinking of, my love?" he asked.

"The Egyptian god of the moon," she replied, and she was pleased to see, out of the corner of her eye, that he had cocked his head with renewed interest.

"Khonsu," he said, "if I recall correctly. Have you been studying, little fawn?"

She nodded. "His name means 'traveller,' for he travels across the night sky. But he was also believed to watch over those who travel at night." Here she turned to look at him, quite pointedly.

"Is that so?" came his dulcet murmur.

"He was once violent and dangerous, an assassin for a pharaoh in the underworld. But he gradually transformed and came to be revered as gentle and compassionate, and as a healer. They called him 'Embracer' and 'Defender.' And do you know why the moon does not shine every day of the month?"

"I do not."

"It is said that Khonsu gave away a portion of his moonlight. To Nut, at a time when she had great need of assistance." She paused and then admitted, "Of course, he only did so because he lost a bet."

There was that sonorous chuckle again. "Just say what it is that you are getting at, my dear."

Here, she stared unabashedly into his eyes. "He was a moon-god fit for a sky-goddess."

Erik registered surprised for only a split second before he gave her a sad smile, reaching out to smooth the hair at her brow. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, my fawn, but Nut had a husband. The god of the earth."

"Ah, but they were separated for eternity," she said. "And that was presumably before she came to know Khonsu, before he changed. Why should she not throw in her lot with the man who is actually there for her, every single night?"

"You cannot change a narrative simply to suit your interests."

"I disagree," she said. "I am already doing it in real life. Perhaps I was intended for a man of earth, but I chose moonlight."

His bright irises flared, and she stared back defiantly. " _You_ are incorrigible," he stated, and then he bent down to kiss her, his hand anchoring itself where it had been stroking her hair. There was urgency in the pressure of his mouth, in the way he forced her lips to part for him, but it seemed born only of desire and appreciation and none of the self-deprecating emotions that he could be prone to. Soon she was kissing back with equal fervor, accepting that this was just how every night of theirs would wrap up until further notice. To fight it was akin to fighting gravity.

He pulled away as the cab rolled to a stop, and she was left breathless and wanting as usual. Once the driver came around to open the carriage, Erik helped her out and instructed the man to wait while he walked her to her door.

"I will see you for your lesson in a few days," he said, "if not sooner." She wrapped her arms around him in an embrace, and he pressed his lips to her forehead.

Clara watched him duck back into the carriage, and then she straightened the cloak around her shoulders and reached for the door handle.

She had barely touched the cold metal when she was yanked backward by the throat, a strong arm having locked itself around her neck. A black-gloved hand rose in front of her face, brandishing a six-inch blade that glinted in the moonlight.

"Your jewelry and your purse," demanded a gruff voice at her ear.

Terrified, she rasped, "I—I have neither." It was the truth; perhaps it was foolish not to carry a purse, but she had not seen any need given the circumstances. She had never considered it safe to wear jewelry on her nighttime escapades regardless, and the irony that its absence might now endanger her _more_ was not lost on her.

"Well, you had best find something," her attacker hissed, moving the blade to her throat. She felt a sharp, burning pain and knew that he had grazed skin. "I'm not leaving without a reward."

To their astonishment, the knife suddenly flew forward of his hand, where it bounced off the building's stone facade and hit the pavement with a clatter. Then he was jerked backward, his arm releasing her as he did so, but not before his momentum pulled her back with him. She braced herself for a hard landing.

It did not come. She fell into a pair of arms instead, and they quickly lifted her to a standing position. By the time she whirled around to face her rescuer, Erik was standing over her fallen assailant, boot planted firmly on the man's chest, the dislodged knife in one hand and one end of the Punjab lasso in the other. The opposite end of the lasso was looped around the man's neck. It was tight, enough to keep him coughing and gagging, but she could see that he was still breathing. He looked to be about forty, his tan skin leathery and flecked with dark stubble.

She did not need to glimpse Erik's face to know that he was seething; it was evident in his rigid posture alone, and in the ferocity with which he gripped his weaponry. It frightened her. He was _so_ angry, and all it would take to bring about an execution was a swift tug of his hand.

"Ah, my friend," he intoned, "you have crossed the wrong man tonight." How utterly unnerving it was that a voice should be _so_ beautiful and yet so, so cold.

"Do you see that goddess over there?" he continued, nodding his head in her direction. "The one whose skin you have pierced with your blade? Her health and safety mean more to me than anything on this wretched earth." With a flick of his wrist, the catgut tightened just a hair.

The man's eyes widened. "Please, monsieur," he wheezed.

Erik withdrew his foot and crouched next to the man, his knees jutting out sharply. "I ought to flay you alive," he said quietly, touching the tip of the knife to the man's chin, "for daring to touch her."

"Erik," Clara whimpered.

Several tense and quiet seconds elapsed before her phantom rose to tower over the unlucky miscreant. "Consider yourself fortunate," he growled, "that I have retired from the business of inflicting unmitigated pain." There was another flick of his wrist, and the catgut loosed itself from the man's neck and receded into Erik's grasp, at which point it promptly disappeared into his cloak. The knife he tucked into the lining of his tailcoat.

He crossed over to Clara to wrap a protective arm around her shoulders, his eyes never once leaving the man who still lay, terrified, on the cold ground. "Get up," he commanded, "and pray that I never see your face again."

Uncertain, the man glanced from Erik to Clara and back again before stumbling to his feet. Then he was off like a shot, retreating into the shadows as she stared, dumbfounded, her brain still trying to catch up to the present circumstances.

"Hold still," Erik said, and he pressed a handkerchief gently to the front of her neck. Was she bleeding? She must be. With the adrenaline in her system receding, a warm throb of pain at her throat started taking its place in the foreground.

"Are—are you all right, mademoiselle?" came a weak and unfamiliar voice.

They looked up to find the coachman standing in front of his cab, its carriage door still flung open, and he was gaping at them. She nodded.

"Go back to the coach and await my return," Erik instructed him. "You shall be generously compensated for the delay." He turned his attention back to Clara. "Are you truly all right, my dear? You are far too pale for my liking."

"Yes," she said shakily. "I think so." A light came on in a second-floor room above them—a room in her house. Quickly, she lifted her hand to press the handkerchief to her throat, simultaneously pulling his fingers off of it. "Thank you, my love, but you have to go before you are seen."

His mouth fell open. "No, Clara. I cannot—"

"You _must_ ," she pleaded. "There is no good that could come of your presence in this particular situation. _Please._ " She squeezed his hand and, without even waiting for an answer, dashed for the door. The least she could do was to get inside before anyone came out and saw Erik. She did not even dare to glance back at him as she shut herself in.

She had been right to worry.

It was as she hurried past the drawing-room that she ran into her father, wearing his dressing gown and the expression of one who has been unwillingly roused from his bed. "Clara?" he asked, squinting at her even with his spectacles on. "What is going on?"

"I—I was…" In her addled state, she found herself fresh out of excuses. "I was out, father. I am sorry; it will not happen again."

He opened his mouth but did not speak. She winced; she had actually stunned him out of a reply. Then his gaze fell to her throat. "Good God, are you _bleeding_?"

She pulled the handkerchief away and saw that it was soaked through with a small spot of crimson. "Y—yes, but I am fine, honestly. I ought to get to bed." It was foolish hope, really, that began to carry her feet in the direction of her room.

"Clara Marie Toussaint," her father ground out sharply, and she halted on the spot. The last time she had heard him use that voice was when he had caught Margot cussing, just shy of their fourteenth birthday. "You will come back here _this instant_ and tell me why you took it upon yourself to sneak out in the middle of the night and _why you are bleeding_."

Heart pounding, she backed up to where he stood. "I was robbed at knifepoint," she confessed. "My neck brushed against the knife."

Henri looked practically apoplectic. "Tell me everything," he demanded.

And, God forgive her, she lied.

This time, though, she lied to protect Erik and not her own reputation. She gave an adjusted account of events; in this version, she still took a cab, but only as a mindless diversion from her insomnia. She rode to the Palais, wandered around the lobby with the rest of the opera crowd, and then, overcome with guilt, returned home. It was a passing stranger who saved her from her assailant.

Henri was furious, but she could tell that his anger came from a place of good intent, like the frantic shouting of a mother reunited with a child who has run away in a crowd. Still, it was difficult to bear, especially when her good sense was called into question. "Did you forget that the LaFleurs were robbed at knifepoint only just last month?" he roared at one point, and indeed, she _had_ forgotten.

She withstood his interrogation and his rebukes for a good fifteen minutes, receiving sympathetic glances from the handful of household servants who turned up in nightclothes at odd intervals to investigate the commotion.

When she was finally permitted to retire to her room, she could not rest easy, even with the knowledge that her secret remained safe. She knew that she would not be able to sneak out again.

* * *

The following day, Clara was in the recreation room of the asylum when the clock chimed one. At that particular moment, she was stocking the supply baskets with yarn, having entirely forgotten Nadir's impending arrival. With the weather cooling down, the new mothers were keen to crochet hats and booties and blankets for their little ones. One of the women was plunking away at the old piano, and its discordant notes were an assault on Clara's ears. She wished she had known of its condition earlier, when it would have been easier to recruit Erik to tune it.

At the sound of the chime, she threw the remaining skeins into a basket and practically ran to the entrance, where Nadir was already chatting amiably with Adele. "Ah, Clara," said the directress upon her arrival, while Nadir offered a warm smile. "I have just had the pleasure of meeting your acquaintance here. He says that you requested his presence?"

"Yes," said Clara, trying to catch her breath. "Madame, I believe that I may have found you a replacement bookkeeper." They both regarded her with mild surprise, and she added, "If that is agreeable to the two of you, of course."

Her instinct, thankfully, proved correct. It was hardly ten minutes before a chair was set up for Nadir on the opposite side of her large writing desk. Adele was practically euphoric while she gave him a rundown of what needed to be done, and as she left him with a stack of ledgers, she flashed Clara a smile so grateful that the latter could not help but grin.

"You are Adele's new hero," Clara said once she and Nadir were left alone in the office.

He rooted around for a pencil. "I will admit, it is nice to be revered for once instead of derided. I nearly forgot that humans are not generally abrasive by default."

She was once again compelled to apologize on Erik's behalf, but then the daroga winked at her, and she smiled.

The merriment was short-lived, however.

"Nadir," she said quietly, and he looked up from his work. "I need you to get a message to Erik for me. Please tell him that my father caught me sneaking in last night and that he should steer clear of the house, except for lessons, until he hears from me again. I fear that I will be under surveillance for a while."

"Of course," the Persian replied, but he was frowning. "Though I wonder, Clara, how much longer you can keep up this pretense."

She sighed and let her head fall into her hands, where she rubbed at her temples. "I know, daroga, I truly do. I just need to get through this charity ball, and then I will figure something out. And on that note…" She pulled out the list of names and addresses that had been occupying her for days as she slaved over the invitations. "I am so close to the end of this invitee list that I can smell it. I left off somewhere in the V's."

"Best get on with it, then," said Nadir, and he turned his attention to the ledgers.

The room went quiet, save for the scratching of pen and pencil against paper, until Clara suddenly let out a small roar of frustration. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!" she cried.

Nadir peered over at her curiously. "What is it?"

She held up the list and looked at him with weary resignation. "Verne."

* * *

 _Special thanks to LaLadyCavalier, who tipped me off to Khonsu_.


	27. Free Fall

October ended without resolution. In the wake of Henri's discovery, he returned to Clara with an ultimatum: cease her nighttime outings, or go to live with her second cousin in the country, where such escapes would be effectively quashed. Naturally, she chose the former. She did not call his bluff, not when she started noticing the increased presence of servants wherever she went in the house; she had no doubt that her father had enlisted some additional eyes and ears to further his cause.

Not long ago, Clara would have been mortified by this development. She had never been one to rock the boat, after all, and she hated to have anyone be cross with her. But while those two facts remained, she was less embarrassed than she was exasperated. The various threads in her life were becoming more tangled by the minute, and this new development was yet another snarl.

So she kept Erik at a distance as she tried to iron out the other snags. Their interaction was limited to the weekly piano lesson, and they used Nadir as an intermediary. Meanwhile, her world was bursting with charity ball preparations and an influx of residents at the asylum and her attempts to convince her father that she was once again his ever-obedient daughter.

Erik was not informed of Isaac Verne's invitation to the ball.

Clara and Nadir debated, at length, the merits of telling him. To start, they could not even be sure of Verne's attendance; the last Clara had heard, he was in London. Moreover, she knew that Erik's patience with the man was dwindling, and the night of the attempted robbery had been a sobering reminder of how dangerous he could be when provoked. She also reasoned that, even if Verne _did_ attend, Erik would be much less likely to cause a scene around a crowd than if given free reign in the weeks leading up to the ball. Here, Nadir was less than convinced. Still, he deferred to her judgment in the end—perhaps considering the fact that, if they decided to inform Erik, he would have to be the one to deliver the news.

On the first of November, the Toussaints observed All Saints' Day, as they always did, by attending mass and then traveling to the cemetery, their arms laden with colorful chrysanthemums to place at the family mausoleum.

They arrived to find a bouquet of fresh lilies already there. Given that the graveyard was bustling with activity and already packed with flowers, they chalked it up to either error or generosity on the part of someone visiting a tomb nearby. Clara, however, knew otherwise. Her heart ached for the man who, more than six months after being told, still recalled her sister's favorite flower.

The ball was the following week. She spent the better part of a day getting ready for it, scrubbing her skin pink in the bath and slathering it with scented creams after. Juliette teased her doe-brown hair into a pile of soft curls, which she gathered and pinned at the back of Clara's head, leaving a handful of thick ringlets to cascade down the back of her neck. The loose strands were secured at the top with a wide, thin comb of delicate gold filigree flanked by long rows of seed pearls; it had belonged to Clara's mother.

As was conventional, she wore a simple but elegant gown of understated color: a skirt and fitted bodice of champagne-colored silk, with wide, rippling swaths of matching tulle draped diagonally across the skirt. The bodice was sleeveless with a heart-shaped neckline, exposing her shoulders and collarbone. She completed the ensemble with slippers and long silk gloves.

It was the most attention she had ever given to her appearance before a social function, all because she knew that _he_ would be watching. Her stomach flipped at the thought.

"My word, Clara," said Céleste from her parlor chair when her niece came to show off the ensemble. "You are positively glowing."

From the doorway behind Clara, Bertrand cleared his throat. "Forgive me, but mademoiselle's escort has arrived," he announced.

The two women exchanged glances and proceeded to the drawing-room to receive him.

Clara was quite familiar with men's ballroom attire, yet it was still unnerving to see him dressed so similarly to Erik: black slacks and tailcoat, black vest and white shirt, white tie and gloves. The only difference was the presence of his beard and his boat-shaped hat, which he swept from his head as he bowed to her. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he said.

She smiled and offered a polite curtsy in response. "It is a pleasure to see you, Monsieur Khan. I appreciate your company this evening."

It had been Erik's idea to appoint Nadir as her escort, but the Persian had been against it even as he mentioned it to Clara in their shared office at the asylum. "I do not dance, nor do I drink," he argued. "What good would my presence serve?"

"You would make fine company for a girl who is actively avoiding suitors," she had said, "and perhaps you would even meet someone." At the sight of his raised eyebrow, she had added, "A friend! Or several. That is all I meant."

He had shaken his head, saying, "I am too set in my ways for such youthful pursuits, my dear. Perhaps I finally ought to take Erik's flippant advice and get myself a cat." Here, he had leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Still, I know when I am fighting a losing battle, and as I am outnumbered I expect this to be one of them. So fear not, dear Clara; I will escort you to the charity ball."

She had to seek permission afterward, of course. Despite her repeated insistence that Nadir was nothing more to her than a well-meaning work colleague and mentor, Henri had conceded only after writing to the asylum to inquire about Nadir's character and then inviting the man to dinner as a means of friendly interrogation.

"The pleasure is all mine," Nadir said to her now, and she wondered how he could possibly say that when all prior evidence suggested the contrary. But he flashed her an earnest smile as he produced a small bouquet from behind his back, and once he had exchanged pleasantries with her family, he led her out to the cab that he had hired for the night.

It occurred to Clara, upon entering the Palais Garnier, that she had not been to a ball since the Mardi Gras festivities in the very same building. Had that really been nine months ago? It felt like a different era entirely.

 _This_ ball was decidedly more tasteful. It was a much smaller crowd, and with no masks to hide behind, the guests were merry but subdued. Perhaps things would change as the night wore on and the punch was consumed, but it could never rival the debauchery that she had witnessed.

And yet, her skin tingled and her stomach fluttered at the sight of the grand foyer, where the dancing was to take place. It was here that she had first seen Erik, first experienced the haunting caress of his voice, first earned the subtly mocking nickname that was now a welcome term of endearment: _fawn_. She shivered to know that he would once again be lurking somewhere and watching her, but it was not a shiver born of fear this time.

As soon as they were able, Clara and Nadir stopped to greet Adele, who positively shone in her gown of deep purple and gold silk brocade. She conversed openly with nearly everyone who came through the doors, likely as her post required, but she appeared genuinely happy—perhaps even relieved—to see Clara and Nadir.

"I confess," she said to them in confidence, "that I have been looking forward to the full night's sleep that awaits me later more than I have the ball itself."

Clara laughed. "Has it at least been worth the effort?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, the attendance numbers are remarkable despite the cost of admission! I had thought the price too steep, but the board of advisors insisted, and it seems their instincts proved correct."

"Ah, well, leave it to the wealthy to determine what they would be willing to pay," said Nadir.

"I am afraid that you will have your work cut out for you on Monday, monsieur," Adele cautioned him.

"Better feast than famine!" he replied cheerfully. "Come, Clara, shall we find you some punch?"

They began to make the rounds, stopping to chat with fellow volunteers and others whom they had come to know through their work at the asylum. Clara ran into a longtime family friend, a city councillor whom her father had known since before she was born, and out of familial politeness he asked her to dance the waltz.

It was when she went to find Nadir after the song that she saw him: Isaac Verne, bedecked in sharp black and white, striding toward her with evident purpose. "Mlle. Toussaint," he greeted her, bending at the waist.

She offered a small, tense curtsy and forced a smile. "What a surprise to see you here, monsieur."

"My father is on the board of advisors for the asylum," he replied, and she could have kicked herself for somehow overlooking that detail. "I have gotten word of your volunteer work there, and it is quite commendable. May I have the pleasure of your company for the next dance?"

"Of course," she said, though every fiber of her being railed against it. He had caught her off guard, she reasoned. After the dance, she would request an audience with him, perhaps seek out refreshments, and she would finally lay bare her disinterest.

The pair of them joined three other couples to form a square for the quadrille. She was so flustered by Isaac's sudden appearance that it was not until the music started that she noticed the man standing opposite her: Nadir, with Adele as his dancing partner. Clara's eyes widened and she flashed the Persian a questioning look; he shrugged helplessly in response.

When it came time for her to step forward and circle hand-in-hand with Nadir, while Adele and Isaac did the same beside them, she spoke to him in hushed tones. "I thought that you were not allowed to dance!"

"Not in mixed company, no," he said. "But I saw our esteemed directress standing alone, and what else was I to do? Surely Allah will forgive me this one transgression."

They were forced to separate and return to their respective places in the square, but once the dance brought them together again, she resumed the conversation. "Your excuse does not explain how you are so light on your feet," she teased.

"So I have had some practice," he replied, green eyes twinkling. "Can't a man have his secrets, Clara?"

Her newfound knowledge of Nadir's dancing skills buoyed her through the song, and she was in good spirits by the end, feeling confident about what she must do next. "Shall we get some refreshments?" she said to Isaac as the various quadrille squares dissolved. "There is something that I should like to tell you."

He hesitated and gave her a strange sort of look, as though assessing her motives, before he replied, "Certainly. There is something that I wish to discuss as well."

They walked into the adjoining _Galerie du Glacier_ , a long corridor where the refreshment tables were located, but they both instinctively moved past the crowd to settle in a quieter location much farther down the hall.

"Monsieur, I—"

"I apologize," he interrupted, "but I think that perhaps it would be best if I spoke first." His assertion caught her off guard, and he seemed to take her resulting silence as a tacit agreement. "I have enjoyed getting to know you these past few months," he said, looking her straight in the eyes. His soft gray ones were bright and clear. "Your family has shown me great kindness. Perhaps you are already aware, mademoiselle, of the pretense under which your father first invited me into your home. That is, he thought that we—you and I, that is—would...would be…"

Oh, goodness. She hoped that this was not headed where she thought it might be headed. She could feel the panic seeping into her expression as he struggled to complete his thoughts.

What happened next was practically instantaneous, but to Clara, who had been contending with a gradual, tumorous swell of dread in her gut ever since Isaac's appearance, it occurred in slow motion.

There was a commotion at the end of the corridor, and she looked up to find the overhead chandeliers flickering out, one by one in swift succession, until the entire hall was plunged into darkness. She felt Isaac's warm hand clutch her elbow as surprised shrieks erupted among the crowd.

She somehow knew, without knowing, that this was _his_ doing. Her heart thumped wildly while the rest of her body went immobile.

In the darkness, another hand gripped her wrist: this one icy to the touch, even through her glove. It snatched her from Isaac's grasp and pulled her until she stumbled forward, forced to follow, helpless amid the black chaos.

She was dragged nearly half the length of the hall before the hand spun her into a pair of bony and waiting arms. They wrapped around her like a vice, crushing her against a thin and unyielding torso. She felt her abductor kick at something; there was a faint creak of metal, and then the floor beneath her gave way. Her shriek of terror was lost among the clamor of the crowd as the two of them plummeted downward.

It was a longer fall than she had ever experienced, and in that split second in which gravity was king, she was nearly certain that she would die upon impact.

Instead, they hit something soft and yielding, and he expertly pivoted their bodies so that his bore the brunt of the landing. Still, it momentarily knocked the wind out of Clara, such that she did not move even when she was released.

He slid away from her. There was a crunch of boot on stone, then a flicker of light: a candle, nestled in a wall sconce, coming alive in the blackness. His yellow eyes came into focus first, followed by the white of his shirt and the slivers of pale skin not covered by clothing or mask. Erik leaned forward and extended his hands to help her up.

She did not know whether to be angry or fearful. Still, she took his hands and let him extricate her from what appeared to be a pile of many large, thick cushions, with an errant feather suggesting goose down. When she was standing and had regained her composure, she turned on him.

"What," she snapped, "was _that_?"

"A three-story free fall through a hidden trapdoor," he replied. "We are presently in a walled-off corner of the cellars."

"You know what I meant, Erik! Did you do something to Isaac?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"In the dark, before you took me. Did you harm him?"

He watched her, silently, as his jaw flexed. There was no mistaking the ache in his voice when he finally replied, "No, Clara, I did not."

"You can hardly blame me for asking," she said, "given that you thought it appropriate to _abduct_ me from a charity event."

"That fop is _everywhere_ , and he showed every intention of asking for your hand!"

"And you think that I would have _accepted_ him?"

He moved in closer to peer down at her, as he had done once upon a time to intimidate, but now it seemed as though he was searching her face for some sort of clue. "No," he finally said, his voice somber. "Not initially. But you are still so eager to uphold your place in this society that I cannot help but wonder how easily he might bend you to his will."

His words cut her deeply. Clara's mouth fell open, and she fumbled for a response. "How little you must think of me," she managed to utter, her voice so very small.

"On the contrary, my sweet fawn." He took up one of her hands in his, pressing his lips her knuckles. "I admire you for wanting to appease everybody." He released her and walked toward the stone wall, staring at its surface while he stood with his back to her. "But it is folly," he said quietly. "I see that now."

She felt her heart sinking as she replied, "I do not understand."

Erik turned to face her once more. "Ah, Clara. I am coming to realize that I have never had you and never could."

"You _do_ have me," she protested, but her eyes watered even as she whispered the words again. "You do."

"Ah, but your tears betray you," he said softly, producing a handkerchief for her. "You need only consider whose name is absent from your dance card to know that I am right. What a fool I was to have hoped otherwise!"

She suddenly saw him as he must have seen himself: a literal outsider, watching her life unfold through a thick-paned window, basking in her company only on the occasions when she deigned to step outside.

"I am so sorry, Erik," she said hoarsely. "I have not meant to shut you out. Things will settle down soon, and I will make more of an effort to—"

"It will never be enough!" he bellowed. She froze, clutching the handkerchief tightly in her fingers, and at the sight of her distress he seemed to deflate. "Forgive me, little fawn; it is not you I am angry with, but rather the situation. The situation caused by this damnable _face!"_ He raked his fingernails down his mask, sinking farther and farther until he was squatting on the ground, knees akimbo, head falling forward into his hands. She could only watch, helpless and horrified, as he rocked back and forth with a small, drawn-out groan.

Finally, he tilted his head to look up at her with glassy yellow eyes. "Just promise me, Clara, that you will not settle for Verne. You deserve infinitely more than he has to offer."

She shook her head fervently. "No. I want _you_ , you ridiculous man. Not Verne or anyone else."

"Impossible!" he snapped, and he shot to his feet. "Ask yourself, Clara, right this second: do you prefer to spend the rest of your life living in the light or in the shadows? For there is no in-between, and you would be naive to believe otherwise."

"Is not moonlight both?" she argued. "Perhaps that in-between is impossible, as you insist, but I must at least _try_."

"Ah, yes, by continuing to hide me and lie to your elders? That has been most effective so far."

"I would tell them the truth if I had any proof of commitment!"

Her outburst stunned the both of them into silence. She had not realized, until she said it, what had thus far kept her from dissolving the walls that separated her worlds of light and shadow. But now it was so painfully, obviously clear that she felt stupid for not having acknowledged it before.

She saw Erik stiffen as her meaning set in, his lips parting with incredulity. "Ah," he said. "You...ah." He cast his gaze downward, absently flexing his fingers. "You would like a betrothal," he concluded.

Clara felt the urge to backpedal, terrified that she had pushed too far. But why should she not be honest? It stood to reason that she should want a firm commitment to aid her in her cause, and she could think of nothing more desirable than an engagement to the man she loved. "Yes," she affirmed. "It does not have to be now, but…" She trailed off. If it stood to reason, why, then, did she feel so guilty for requesting it?

Because it was _Erik_ who needed proof of commitment, she realized. He had been so disillusioned by their relationship that he had seen no end but to give up on her entirely! How utterly blind and selfish she had been.

"I take it back," she said quietly, and he cocked his head to look at her. "I have delayed this long enough. I will tell my family tonight, if you wish it, and we can weather the consequences as they come."

He blinked in surprise, but then he shook his head. "No. You were right to delay, my love. Do not tell them, not just yet." He did not elaborate, and she watched him uncertainly. How was she to interpret that? Did he mean to imply that he would take care of it, or that he was not yet ready for that level of commitment?

"Come," he said, taking up her hand. "They will have the lights back on by now. You have a foppish giraffe to spurn, and I am very much looking forward to it."

He started to lead her away, but she resisted. "Wait," she said, and she pulled him back to her. He came willingly, eyes bright and inquisitive. "I have missed you," she explained. He folded her into his arms without hesitation.

"I know that I previously expressed interest in your trapdoors," she murmured into his tailcoat, "but you may now consider my curiosity sated. Please do not ever take me through one again."

His chest shook with quiet, gentle laughter, and she sank into him and tried to assure herself that everything would work itself out in the end.

* * *

Erik snuck her back into the festivities via the bookcase passage in the library, which joined up with the grand foyer on the side opposite the _galerie_. She happened upon Nadir first, and he swiftly pulled her aside to ask whether she was all right.

"Yes," she said, "despite my brief abduction through a trapdoor."

"I _knew_ it was him!" Nadir hissed. He narrowed his eyes. "Between the two of us, Clara, I think that I am liable to strangle him someday."

"He would have the lasso around your neck before you lifted a finger," she said with a sigh. "At least he was well-intentioned. I shall tell you more during the ride home. I am afraid that I was kidnapped mid-discussion, and I must tie up some loose ends."

She found Isaac near the intersection of the grand foyer and the _galerie_ where they had last seen each other. He had been looking for her this whole time, he reported anxiously. She fed him a lie about getting jostled and lost amid the commotion, and they stepped aside to continue their conversation.

"You spoke of my father's intentions earlier," she said, "and I feel that I must inform you, with great regret, that whatever his intentions may have been, I cannot conceive of you and I being any more than friends." His face registered surprise, and she added, "I am sorry to be so forthright, monsieur, but in the instance that I have misled you, I feel obligated not to do so any longer than necessary."

"No, do not apologize!" he said, and then he actually smiled. "It is a relief, quite frankly."

Clara frowned. "I'm sorry, a...a relief?"

His expression faltered, and he put up his hands, placatingly. "Please do not misunderstand me; you are a lovely woman, and I am glad that we are friends. But I fear that I have left my heart in London, and I was somehow convinced that this news would not be well received by your family."

"Oh!" she said, feeling like a fool and trying desperately to mask her embarrassment with enthusiasm. "How...wonderful."

He nodded. "Indeed. I am putty in her hands, mademoiselle. I intend to make an offer of marriage on my return trip."

She was still blushing furiously, unable to make eye contact with him. "Well," she said, "I offer you my early congratulations. I am certain that the two of you will make a fine pair." She cleared her throat, which seemed to be sticking to itself. "Will you excuse me? I am afraid that my friend is expecting me."

They exchanged farewells, and she hurried off to find Nadir, eager to forget the awkward conversation as soon as possible.

The rest of the evening was blissfully tame, even enjoyable, thanks to the alcohol that she downed on her way back to Nadir and her other colleagues. She even convinced the daroga to dance with her, and she wondered whether Erik was watching them and what he would possibly make of such a scene.

But more than that, even, she kept wondering whether he was thinking about, as she was, the fact that she had just confessed to wanting to marry him.


	28. The Music Teacher

Early December in the asylum meant that more of the new mothers were driven to the recreation room instead of the outdoors, and today was no exception. Clara sat restlessly among a group of women and their infants by the large fireplace, often with a sleeping newborn nestled against her shoulder so its mother could crochet.

Presently she was watching a black-haired girl of about nine struggle with Bach's "Minuet in G" at the old square piano. Perhaps it was unfair to call it a struggle—the child had been steadily improving over time—but it was a plodding and repetitive process that had gone on for half an hour thus far. It was unclear where the girl had come from or why she was even there, in her shapeless brown dress that was too thin for the current cold snap, but no one seemed to pay her any mind.

Clara was not, in fact, scheduled to volunteer that day. She had come in for one very important reason, and she snapped to attention when that reason came walking in alongside Nadir.

He wore his black cloak today, and it billowed behind him as he strode in on long legs and black leather boots, carrying the valise that he brought to piano lessons. Imposing though he was, he looked almost comically out of place in this location, and his discomfort was evident.

Clara stood to intercept the men as they crossed the edge of the room. She held a tiny baby boy in the crook of her arm, and she saw Erik do a double-take as she approached. She gave him a soft smile. "Thank you for coming," she said, voice hushed so as not to draw attention: a pointless effort, really, since everything about Erik demanded scrutiny. The women were already staring.

But Clara had grown comfortable around them, earning their trust in turn, and she knew that though they might question his mask and his presence in their minds, they would not do so outright, not with her there as an intermediary. They were far too tired, too preoccupied with keeping their newborns alive, too indebted to the asylum.

"I leave him in your capable hands," Nadir said to her, and he touched his fingers to the brim of his hat with a nod before heading back to his office.

Erik, meanwhile, was peering down at the infant asleep in her arms. "Are they always so small?" he asked.

"Generally, yes."

He frowned. "Hardly built for survival, are they?"

"Well...no," she replied. "They are transitioning from the womb to the outside world. Of course they need help." He seemed so utterly perplexed by the babe, perhaps even fascinated—if only from a scientific perspective—that she found herself asking, "Would you like to hold him? I am sure his mother—"

"No," he interrupted, perhaps too quickly. "That is quite all right."

She tried not to roll her eyes. "Let us get on with it, then." With Erik at her heels, she walked up to the piano to address the girl, who was still playing the minuet. She had seen only the back of the child's head before then, and it caught her off guard to find a black cloth patch covering her right eye, fastened with a dark cord that blended into her stringy hair. The left eye, colored a deep brown, fixed itself on Clara's face as the minuet came to a halt.

"I am so sorry to interrupt you," said Clara. "What is your name?"

"Sabine."

"Sabine," she repeated. "How lovely. I apologize, Sabine, but I must ask you to step away for a time so that Monsieur Giovanni here can tune the piano."

"What does that mean?" the girl asked.

"It...ah, well..." She trailed off and blushed, realizing that she had no idea what tuning the instrument actually entailed.

"It means that I must adjust the tension in the strings," Erik said, "to correct their tones. I must also ensure that the pins holding the strings are secured appropriately."

"That sounds awfully tedious," Sabine replied.

He nodded soberly. "Indeed, it is. But as with all things in life, perfection is to be hard-won."

"Perhaps if we are not bothersome," Clara suggested, "Monsieur Giovanni will let us watch."

Sabine nodded and slid off the bench, moving a respectable distance away from the side of the piano.

Clara turned back to Erik. "Again," she said, "Thank you. I am afraid that a piano tuner is not in the budget, and...well..." She flushed. "Any excuse to see you." Their time together in the month since the ball was still limited mostly to lessons, with the occasional balcony visit thrown in. She had begun to feel like a prisoner in her own home. And she had known when she made the case for Erik's service call to Nadir that the daroga saw right through her, yet he still acquiesced and sought agreement from both Adele and Erik.

The latter looked at her now with a heady intensity that she could sense despite not being able to make out his eyes. "You know that I would do anything for you, my fawn," he said quietly. "You need only ask."

She believed him, for the most part. Yet, here they were, in the same precarious position as they had been before she voiced her desire for a betrothal. He had not broached the subject since, and she, ever trusting, had not pressed him. But, as it turned out, four weeks without one mention of the issue had been enough for the seeds of doubt to take root in her mind.

She swallowed her misgivings and said, half jokingly, "I do wonder whether this piano can even be saved." As a demonstration, she played a high C so out of tune that it seemed to split into two notes.

Erik cringed. "Ah, no, that will not do. But let us see what the instrument holds."

He trailed his fingers over the mahogany paneling, ghosted them across the ivory keys, and played a quiet, rapid scale among the upper notes. Then, with great care, he lifted the piano lid and propped it open to examine the hammers and strings and pins, his pale fingers running over them without actually making contact. His delicate affection for the instrument must have seemed a stark contrast to his dark exterior, she surmised, to those who did not know him.

"She has a solid foundation," he remarked, withdrawing his hands. "With some nurturing, she shall sing for us again." He reached into his black leather valise and pulled out the lacquered box that she had seen before, with various implements nestled in its velvet lining. She took a few steps back to give him space, while at the same time Sabine moved in closer to view the contents of the box. From that point on, the girl proceeded to question everything that he did. Erik, to Clara's warm delight, indulged her curiosity with great detail and patience.

He set to work quickly, his fingers deft and practiced as they threaded a long strip of felt through an octave's worth of strings. This, he explained, would isolate the strings that he wanted to tune first and mute the surrounding ones. Then he set off a metal tuning fork and played the corresponding note on the keyboard so that they could hear, by comparison, how out of tune the piano was.

As he continued, he held the tuning fork between his teeth to free up his hands: one rooted inside the piano, using a special lever to adjust the pins that controlled the tension of the strings, and the other hovering over the keys, striking each one repeatedly until it was calibrated to his liking. Periodically he would play two notes at once, in varying intervals, to check them against each other.

It was, in fact, a tedious process. Both Clara and Sabine sat down on a nearby sofa after the first ten minutes, and Clara finally took it upon herself to ask whether the girl was being accompanied by someone.

"My mother," Sabine answered, "and my new baby brother. I have to live at the children's home while they are here, but if I am good, I am allowed to walk over and see them."

"And where is your mother now?"

"Sleeping." The girl picked at the frayed hem of her sleeve. "I do not think she wishes to see me much, but I hardly mind. I like to play the piano."

They watched Erik in silence for a few minutes, and then Sabine asked, "Why does he wear a mask?"

Clara hesitated. "Because his face is...different...from what people expect."

"And you are not afraid of him?"

"No. I am not."

Sabine considered this. "Then I am not, either."

Clara was struck by the declaration. Did her approval really carry such weight? Perhaps only among the school-age set, she reasoned. But as she spent the next two hours chatting with the other women and fielding their more innocuous questions about Erik, she saw their fascination with him dwindle to almost nothing. Likewise, after he had moved from the piano strings to the pedals, Adele came by to introduce herself and thank him, and she was nothing but courteous and grateful.

Clara knew that he was wrapping up when he shifted from toying with various intervals and scales to playing the opening of a lovely Chopin nocturne. All at once, sound and movement in the room ceased.

With his back to the women, perhaps Erik did not gauge the shift in the atmosphere. He played only a small segment of the piece before he stopped and pivoted on the bench, clearly with the intention of getting up.

"Please don't stop." The gentle plea came from the doorway, where Adele and a few members of the staff had gathered and were watching him with rapt attention. He looked to Clara, hesitating; she nodded, and his agile fingers found the keys once more.

And that was how the inhabitants of the Herves-Guillaume Asylum for convalescents after childbirth were treated to what was likely the greatest interpretation of Chopin they would ever experience in their lifetimes.

There seemed to be a collective, blissful sigh upon his completion of the song. Before Erik could be encouraged to continue, however, he was on his feet. "I am afraid that I must take my leave," he said, and the crowd of onlookers began to dissipate in an exchange of awed murmurs.

He looked over at Sabine, who, in her obvious restlessness, had been edging closer and closer to the instrument over the last several minutes. "Well, go on, then," he said, motioning to the now-vacant bench. She hesitated for only a second before scrambling onto the seat and launching into her minuet.

"She is quite a dedicated study," Clara murmured to Erik as she came to stand beside him. "She was practicing the same piece long before you arrived."

"Hm. Indeed." He stepped forward a few paces, arms crossed authoritatively. "Who taught you to play?" he asked Sabine.

"No one, monsieur."

There came a small grunt of acknowledgement from the base of his throat. He watched her play some more, and then his frame lost some of its rigidity as he lowered his arms and leaned in. "Curve your fingers more, like this," he told the girl. His long fingers slipped under her smaller ones, gently nudging her knuckles upward. "You will find that it gives you better range of motion."

"Yes, monsieur."

She continued, and he nodded approvingly. "Better," he said. "Mind that you keep your wrists level."

It seemed to be with some reluctance that Erik left the girl to her own devices, and as he and Clara moved toward the exit, she saw him throw one last glance at Sabine, the eyepatch like a black stain against her milky skin.

* * *

She saw him again two days later, for their scheduled lesson. He entered the drawing-room clutching his black attaché case, as always, and surveyed the area with measured caution. "Where is your aunt?" he asked.

"Attending her monthly society meeting. It was pushed back a day, on account of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception."

Whatever Erik thought of this new information, he did not say. He simply took his usual place beside the piano and led Clara through a set of warm-up exercises. Afterward, she reached for a small stack of sheet music nearby. "Shall we start with the Bach or the Scarlatti?" she asked.

He held up a hand. "Neither. I wish to address your playing on a broader level."

She shrank back, withdrawing her fingers from the pages to place them in her lap. "Is it truly that terrible?"

"On the contrary—you have made measurable progress. But I cannot help but feel that, on an emotional level, you have found little connection with the music."

She flushed and looked down at her hands. "I scarcely ever have," she confessed. "That was always Margot. I do not think I was ever really meant to be a musician."

"That you were never meant to be a _baroque_ musician—well, that much may be true. But I have had you playing little else." His fingers slid under her chin, lifting it up so that she was forced to look at him. He towered over her, a pillar of dark lines and sharp edges but such a deliciously soft voice. "I am drawn to the baroque pieces," he continued, "because they demand such mastery of technique. I appreciate the agility, the precision. But you—you are so very _different_ , my fawn. Thus, you require different music to appease your soul."

"I have struggled with every piece you have put before me, Erik. I doubt there is anything better suited to my skills."

"Ah, but you would be remiss to think so. Do you suppose I hear only what needs improvement? I have watched and listened to you play for the better part of seven months, Clara." Here he cocked his head to look at her. "I know that you prefer the keys of F and D-flat."

She had never said as much, but he was right. She blinked in surprise.

"I know that your favorite harmonies are arpeggios that flow beneath the melody like a current," he continued. He trailed the tips of his forefinger and index finger along the topmost keys, delicately so that they made no sound. "I know that you prefer legato over staccato. I know that you were meant to play the romantic pieces, not the baroque. And I know," he said with emphasis, "that I have provided you with little opportunity to enjoy these things, because as your teacher I want you to develop as a musician." He leaned in closer, his voice plunging into silken quiet. "But oh, Clara, how I long to see you feel and breathe music as deeply as I do."

His gaze lingered on her face and, not knowing what to say, she nodded in agreement. He straightened, reached down into his valise, and pulled out a handful of pages that he set on the music stand before her. "I have brought you this."

The music was handwritten, the notes rangy and skeletal but near perfect in their uniformity. The piece had no title and no specified composer. It was written in the key of D-flat, and she could see that the harmony consisted of smooth, fast-flowing arpeggios.

When her brain finally processed what she was looking at, her mouth formed a small _o_ and she looked up at him. "You wrote me a song?"

"It will not challenge you, I am afraid, but I hope that it will bring you enjoyment."

 _But you wrote me a_ song _!_ She wanted to shout it from the rooftops. Instead, she asked, "Will you play it for me?"

He hesitated. "Very well, then."

She moved off to the side of the piano so that he could sit on the bench. He lowered his hands to hover over the keys, and the sight of his fingers alone—bent and splayed like spider legs, thrumming with energy—threatened to undo her. And then they sprang to life, plying the keys as though hands and instrument were one entity.

The opening was light and sweet, a tinkling of keys among the high notes, like a clear spring trickling over stones or a butterfly alighting on meadow thistle. It was so unlike anything he would ever deign to play and so obviously meant for her that tears clouded her eyes within seconds. She wondered whether it was possible for one's heart to burst. _Oh, I love you I love you I love you_ : the words reverberated like a mantra in her head.

The endearing simplicity lasted a minute, maybe two, before it evolved into something more complex and profound, lower and fuller, yet still colorfully optimistic. She felt as though she was melting into the floor.

He had not merely written a song _for_ her. He had _written_ _her._

And how different it was from anything she had ever heard: fresh and clean and clear, with little ornamentation—a piece perhaps ahead of its time.

It ended with a return to the gorgeously simple opening theme. Erik held down the final chord, letting it seep into the room and then taper off into quiet, before he slowly retracted his hands. He did not meet her gaze; he appeared to address the keys as he said, "If it does not suit you—"

"I love it," she interrupted. _I love_ you, she wanted to say, but she could not utter it, not here.

He exhaled softly and gave a curt nod. "Now you," he said, his tall frame rising from the piano bench.

Sight-reading had never been a strength of hers, but she took to the new piece immediately. It was as though Erik had written the notes in anticipation of where her fingers wanted to go. For the most part, he was quiet as he let her work through it, his comments reduced to fleeting murmurs: "Mind the crescendo, my dear," and "Do not rush the melody. Let it breathe."

He stood much closer than usual, nearly behind her, and she was hyper-aware of his presence. She felt a jolt of warmth when his hand came to rest on her back as she played: the lightest of touches between her shoulder blades. "You are holding too much tension in the rest of your body when you play," he told her. "It is wasted energy, energy that should be transferred into only your hands and wrists. Try to release it."

And try she did, but it was hard to relax knowing that he was scrutinizing her every move, especially with new music at her fingertips. She knew that she was failing miserably.

He moved behind her to place a thumb on either side of her face, just below her ears, and he began massaging his way down her jawline in small, slow circles. He worked with such care, such tenderness, to ease her anxiety that she wanted to cry. She was overcome with longing and urgency and something else—wistfulness, perhaps—and suddenly it was more important than anything that she voice the question that had plagued her over the past several weeks.

"Erik," she said, her voice so very small, "do you _want_ to marry me?"

His hands froze in place for a moment, and then they dropped to her shoulders. "Oh, Clara," he breathed. "I—" He stopped abruptly and whisked his hands away. Confused, she looked up, and she saw what must have made him start.

"I think perhaps that is enough for today," said her father coolly from the doorway. Erik took a step back, and conversely, Henri took a step forward. "I might ask whether you display such affection toward all your students, but in the end, it hardly matters. Monsieur, you may consider your employment here terminated."

"Father!" Clara gasped. "Please do not make him go."

Henri pivoted to look at her, and though his face was tight with anger, she read something else in his blue eyes: disappointment, perhaps, or possibly even betrayal. "I am through indulging these whimsies of yours, Clara," he said. "You have absolutely no use for lessons at this point. Perhaps if you had given Monsieur Verne as much attention as you do that wretched instrument, he would not be marrying someone else."

Tears were already slipping down her cheeks. As Clara struggled to contain her sobs, Henri turned back to Erik, who stood rigid and unmoving with his fists clenched at his sides. "Why are you still standing there, Giovanni? You have received your orders."

Erik glanced over at her, hesitating.

"Do not _dare_ look at her," Henri hissed. "She is not your employer; _I_ am. You answer to me, and I am ordering you to leave this house!"

Erik's jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might snap off. Clara sprung into action, grabbing his valise from the floor. "Go," she urged him quietly as she pressed it into his hands. "I will talk to him."

He looked from her to her father, then back to her, his gaze lingering, before he nodded. "Good day, monsieur," he ground out at Henri as he stalked across the room.

Clara and her father were left to face each other in silence, the air thick with unresolved tension. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. "Explain yourself," he demanded.

It was time.

"I am in love with him," she said simply.

The color drained from his face. "With him," he repeated. "A paltry music teacher, with a malformed face that you have never even seen."

"I _have_ seen it," she corrected him, her voice wavering, "and he is the cleverest, most thoughtful person I have ever known. He is so much more than he seems, and you would know that if you had not so easily dismissed him from the beginning."

Henri's eyes darkened. "And how, pray tell, have you come to learn all of this?"

Oh, God. She sucked in a breath of air. "I have been seeing him outside of lessons."

He blinked at her. Then he crossed over to the wall, hand tightening as he did so, and slammed his fist against the surface. She flinched.

"How long?" he shouted, and he began pacing and gesticulating wildly. "No. Do not even answer that. I ask you, Clara, what kind of man would even find this sort of behavior acceptable, let alone engage in it? Luring a young woman from her home in the middle of the night!"

"A man whom society has driven into shadows, solely on account of his God-given face."

He faltered. "You...you said it was the result of an accident."

"Does it matter? Either way, he lives his life a shunned and vulnerable man."

"All the more reason for you to keep your distance!"

"I will _not_!"

Her outburst stunned the both of them, sending Henri into silence and Clara into a sudden crying jag. He collapsed into his favorite chair, presumably letting the weight of her confession sink in; she perched on the loveseat, indelicately wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"I love him," she finally said, more reserved now, "and I want to be with him."

"And what of him?" her father asked. "Setting aside all impropriety, and the devastating effect that such conduct would have on the family name if it were discovered. Has he expressed an intent to marry you?"

She looked down at her hands. "Not in as many words, no."

"Good." Her father got to his feet. "Nothing lost, then. Go upstairs and dress for dinner, Clara, and tomorrow after we have both had some time to think, we shall reconvene to discuss your future. I am afraid that more drastic measures may be needed."

She watched him leave, still numb with disbelief. At least the two of them could agree on one thing: more drastic measures would be needed, indeed.

* * *

Clara dressed for bed early, donning a simple white nightdress and allowing a sympathetic Juliette to brush out her hair until it shone and rippled down her back like caramel. To keep up the appearance of sleep, she turned out all of the lights save a single candle. Then she sat up in bed, nestled against the cold winter night in a down comforter, where she alternated between scheming and crying.

There came a gentle rapping at her window, and she was out of bed and across the room like a shot. She pushed the curtains apart and opened the windowed doors that led out to the tiny balcony.

A gust of cold air blew in, and with it came a flurry of tiny snowflakes. They curled around her and danced in the space between her and the tall, black-clad man before her.

The amber glow of his eyes, just barely visible beneath the tilted brim of his hat, settled on her with disquieting solemnity.

"Oh, I am so glad that you came," she said, her voice choking. "I am so sorry, Erik."

"You have nothing to apologize for, my dear." He reached out and ran his skeletal fingers through her long hair, but his movements were brusque and aloof. Something about his presence felt strained. Awkward. "I managed to stall quite effectively on my way out," he added. "I heard everything."

Clara's eyes were watering again. They felt raw, and she knew that they must be bright red and swollen by now. "This was not how I wanted things to happen," she whispered.

"I know, my sweet. But you made a valiant effort."

She took a deep breath to collect herself, moving away from the window to slip on a dressing gown for extra warmth. "I must prepare to leave, then. Will you help me run away, Erik? We can coordinate a plan tonight, or in the coming week, perhaps with Nadir's help—are you not going to come in from the cold, my love?"

He remained motionless, the snow dotting his black wool coat and collecting in the brim of his hat. He looked so stiff, so ill at ease, that she left the belt of her gown untied and started toward him, tense with worry.

And then he fell to one knee, his eyes never leaving her face.

She froze just before she reached him. "Erik?" The name was little more than a breath escaping her lungs.

"My little fawn." His words were uttered so, so softly, yet they somehow fell heavy from his lips, thick with emotion.

Her lips parted, but she did not speak.

"I am a fool," he said. "I questioned the resiliency of your commitment, and even after you reaffirmed it at the ball, I have allowed myself to be waylaid by my own arrogant desire for perfection."

"I don't understand what you mean," she whispered, eyes still wide.

"It was my aim to be a worthy suitor in the eyes of your family," he said, "and I have stopped at nothing to achieve that." She looked at him questioningly, and he explained, "I have been making preparations. Soliciting professional references, from some of my contract work. Getting my finances in order. Procuring a home that is not underground."

Her mouth fell open. The snowflakes were still coming down, settling on his shoulders and drifting into her room. He continued.

"But time has not been on my side, Clara, and I cannot give you all of those things, not yet." Here he reached into his coat and added, "Save one, finished only this morning."

When he withdrew his hand, she could just make out, pinched between thumb and forefinger, a glint of gold. A sparkle of diamonds. Her pulse throbbed in her veins.

"You asked me once," he said, "whether I have ever felt safe. The unfortunate truth is that I have not, and I likely never will. But in your company, in a sanctuary of my own design—that is the closest I have ever been." He briefly closed his eyes. "And I have known, since the night we held each other on the rooftop of the Palais, that nothing will ever surpass that."

He fixed his gaze on her now, his golden eyes coming to life, blazing with passion. "You and I, my sky goddess—together, we are meant for the stars. Our paths were intended to converge from the start, and I was foolish to think that anything or anyone bound to this earth could stop us."

He held out the ring. She could see now that it consisted of a gold crescent, studded with four tiny diamonds, that curled around one larger diamond. A moon and stars.

"Marry me, Clara. Let us not fight destiny any longer."

And then Clara, ever the emotional one, had a moment of startling composure. She knelt before him until they were at eye level, gently pushing aside his ring-bearing hand as she did so. He blinked at her, confused.

"Only one of us ever fought destiny," she told him, moving in closer, "but I am glad that you have finally come around." She planted her hands on either side of his face and kissed him, kissed him so deeply that she thought she might fall into him and never resurface. Then he was kissing her back and she heard the _plink_ of the ring on the floor as his arms came up to wrap around her and pull her in tightly.

It was a long time before she had the breath and the freedom of movement to speak again, and when she did, it was but a small whisper against his mouth: "Yes."

* * *

 _Still more to come._


	29. Noel

Sorry for the wait; I struggled with this one. It seems to be part transition, part ridiculously fluffy holiday special? I hope it's not awful.

Re: the potential for adopting Sabine...she's not an orphan, you guys. She has a mom. :)

* * *

"Yes."

The response, whispered against Erik's lips, caused his grip on Clara to tighten even further. His mouth swept against hers, drinking her in, before sliding off so that his cheek came to rest against hers. "Oh, my Clara," he murmured into her skin. "I would give you everything."

He pulled away to retrieve the ring from the floor, and in the absence of his body shielding her from the frigid air, she began to shiver. Yet she was still so very, intoxicatingly warm inside. He wanted to be with her, wanted _her_ , forever and ever and ever.

And he had let her touch his face—through the mask, of course, but he had not so much as flinched.

Erik lifted her hand and slipped the gold band onto her ring finger. It fit well, and the diamonds twinkled when they caught the light of an outside streetlamp. It was beautiful, but what thrilled her most was what it meant: a promise.

"It is stunning," she said, "though I am not sure I should wear it out just yet." It pained her to say so.

"I expected as much," he replied, still holding her hand. "But please, allow me one moment to bask in this vision of you wearing it." He paused and then added, reverently, "My intended."

Her teeth began to chatter, and Erik sprang to his feet. "What a fool I am," he said as he shut the doors to the balcony, "to keep you here in the cold, where you might catch your death." She let out a surprised gasp as he lifted her and carried her over to the bed with practiced ease, leaving her to wonder at the strength coiled within his lean arms.

He lay her down and pulled the covers over her shivering form, then stood uncertainly until she freed an arm to pat the space next to her. With some hesitation, he slipped off his wet wool coat and draped it over her desk chair. His hat he placed on the desk. Then he stretched out on his side atop the covers, all hard lines and stiffness, but his eyes were soft as they peered into hers.

"What do we do now?" Clara whispered, turning to face him.

"You decide, my love. If you wish to address your father again—"

"No," she said quickly. "I do not. But we hardly need his permission to marry, do we?" She reflected on a lifetime of hushed murmurs regarding spurned sons and daughters who had, scandal of all scandals, eloped against the wishes of their parents.

"Ah...well." Erik paused, and her stomach fluttered nervously in the silence. "Technically we do, since you are not yet twenty-six as required by law. But should he refuse, there is another, less convenient option."

"Yes?"

"We send him a monthly written request through a notary. He is entitled to correspond in return, likely to persuade you otherwise. But once he has rejected three such requests, we will be permitted to marry."

"Three months!" She sighed. "That seems like a lifetime."

He nodded, adding, "And it begs the question of where you will reside during that time."

Her eyes grew large. "I thought...with you?"

"Clara." He hesitated. "I am aware that my own moral code is...dubious, at best. But it would pain me to see you abandon yours on my account."

Oh, Erik. Each time she thought that she could not love him more, he proved her wrong. She was still buzzing with excitement and gratitude in the wake of his proposal, and suddenly the comforter seemed too great a barrier. She tugged at it, but his weight pinned it to the mattress. He looked at her questioningly.

"Under the covers," she whispered. His eyes flashed in desirous surprise and she could see him wavering, but then he moved to join her in the ever-warming blanket cave. She slipped an arm over his waist, and his hand came to settle on her hip in return.

"I have been a perfect, obedient follower for my entire life," she told him, "and what did it ever do for me? I did not start living until I started bending the rules." She scooted closer until she was nestled against him, their clothes touching lightly, and she leaned in to kiss the pulse point below his ear. She felt him shudder.

His lips found the same spot on her in kind. "Be that as it may, I will note that living in contempt of the rules has not served me entirely too well," he murmured against the tender skin of her neck. "Ah, my fawn, you are so very warm."

Erik, on the other hand, was not warm, not really, but he was tense and thrumming with life and she sought that out, moving herself even closer, pressing her mouth to his, curling her fingertips into his back. He sucked in a breath as her bottom lip skated along his, and when she urged his mouth open with her own, tongue flicking out into the open space, seeking more, his fingers sank tightly into her hip.

"Clara." It was a strangled, pleading whisper; whether it was more or less that he sought, she could not tell. She pulled back, just slightly, enough to question him with a glance. His breathing was heavy, and oh, how his eyes burned.

It was clear that some sort of inner struggle was taking place. He opened his mouth to speak, paused, and closed it again. And then his lips descended upon hers in a rush of such heat and pressure that it stole the breath from her lungs and she felt herself go boneless, reduced to a puddle of longing at his mercy.

They kissed. His hand on her hip trailed up her side, then moved laterally across her ribcage, making her chest constrict. It found the edge of her dressing gown and slipped underneath to where her nightgown lay. Then, sandwiched between the two layers of fabric, it worked its way back down to her hip. His touch was cool, even through cloth, but it left crackling flames in its wake.

Suddenly, there was a knock at her door. Erik rolled off of the mattress before she could even react, landing softly and then disappearing from view.

"Clara?" It was her father—likely making sure that she had not snuck out, she thought. She was not ready to speak to him and certainly not comfortable inviting him in, so she declined to answer, instead pulling the covers around her shoulders to feign sleep.

The door creaked open, and she closed her eyes tightly, willing her breaths to slow and deepen. Henri was silent, and with no idea as to Erik's whereabouts, Clara prayed that he did not come in further to investigate.

And then she remembered the black coat and hat at her desk. Her heart thumped so loudly that she was certain it would betray her.

There was another moment of silence, and then the door creaked shut.

It was some time before she felt safe enough to whisper, "Erik?"

He rose from the floor next to her bed, brushing himself off as he did so. "The underside of your bed has not seen a mop in some time," he remarked.

"Sorry."

"That was," he said, "perhaps fortuitous timing." He sat on the edge of her mattress, glancing down at his hands, not daring to touch her this time. "I wish to bring you into my home as my wife, Clara. Will you allow me some time to consider other arrangements?"

She blushed. "Yes...of course. We ought to wait until after Christmas anyway," she conceded. "It is our first Christmas without Margot, and to leave my family now...well, it seems unthinkable. I let my emotions get the better of me."

"Of course. As you wish."

"And I want to celebrate the holiday with you. And Nadir."

He tilted his head to look at her now. "The daroga does not observe Christmas. Nor do I, for that matter."

"I know," she conceded. "But I have always loved it, and I want to give the two of you gifts, and without my sister—" She trailed off, choking on the last word, and Erik visibly softened.

"Consider it done," he said. "We shall work something out. Perhaps employ the daroga as our go-between once more."

Her eyes widened. "Oh! How shall we tell Nadir our news? And how do you suppose he will take it? He has been so withdrawn lately. I worry about him."

"We shall tell him together, at Christmastime."

* * *

The following day was a somber one in the Toussaint household. Henri called Clara into his study and announced that he had no choice but to give her an ultimatum: allow him to arrange a marriage for her, or go to live with the aforementioned cousin in the countryside.

"I am only looking out for your best interests," he told her, and his voice softened as he said it and she knew that he meant it. When she told him that she would allow him to arrange a marriage, the relief and hope she saw in his face made it near impossible for her to look him in the eye, knowing that it was a ruse and she would be gone before any plans came to fruition.

It felt like a betrayal, and it was the first time she began to feel doubt.

Her activities were monitored after that. Henri threatened to bar her from volunteering at the asylum, voicing his suspicions that she had been using it as a cover to "cavort with that man." He did not, however, follow through. She allowed herself to hope that perhaps he had actually believed her when she had denied his accusation, until Adele informed her that he had written the asylum to confirm her attendance. Thankfully, the older woman did not pry, and Clara was spared the embarrassment of explanation.

She had worried that the excitement she felt over her engagement would somehow betray her to her family, but such worry turned out to be unnecessary. She remained upset over the row with her father, she missed Erik, and she missed Margot; and to top it all off, she came down with a cold in the days leading up to Christmas. She was forced to stay home from the asylum so as not to expose the infants. She managed to at least get a message to Nadir to keep their Christmas plans at Erik's house in play, though she knew that the men would be less than thrilled about her traveling in the cold.

On Christmas Eve, the Toussaints attended midnight mass. When they returned in the small hours of Christmas morning, they feasted on smoked salmon and oysters, foie gras with currant jam, roast goose and chestnuts, cheese and croquettes. Clara played the piano to accompany Céleste, the only one of the family gifted with a decent singing voice, as she sang "He Is Born." The festivities were pleasant enough, but they were subdued in light of the recent tensions between Clara and her father, and utterly quiet without Margot and her tireless chatter, her contagious laugh.

They slept late afterward. Christmas day brought another feast for luncheon, and later that night, more drinking. The servants were given small gifts and punch. Clara encouraged the alcohol consumption on all counts, declining due to illness, and when all was said and done she was pleased to find the entire household passed out for the night, such that she was able to walk right out the door without issue.

At her insistence—and despite the protests of Nadir, as well as Erik, by proxy—she took a cab to the Palais, laden with one small parcel and one large hatbox. She wore her favorite fur mantle over a gown of midnight blue, as deep as ink, with tiers of ruffles in the skirt and shiny black buttons trailing down the bodice. She knew that even the finest attire could not offset the redness of her nose nor the puffiness of her eyes, but neither could it hurt.

Her engagement ring she wore on a fine gold chain around her neck, tucked safely under the high-collared bodice. She often found herself pressing her fingers to it, hand to heart, for reassurance that it was still there, that her betrothal was still real.

She was still in her boat on the underground lake when the familiar smell of burning cherry wood wafted into her nostrils and lungs, telling her that Erik had set a Yule log ablaze. Even through illness, she could not stop smiling as she rowed and as she moored the boat ashore.

She walked in to find the drawing-room lit with nothing but candles, easily a hundred of them, lining every surface and flickering from tall candelabras and basking the room in yellow warmth. The mantel was hung with fresh evergreens, and laid out on the hearth was the most beautiful crèche she had ever seen, with perhaps fifty painted clay figures making up the nativity scene and surrounding village. Good smells drifted out from the kitchen.

There was little doubt in her mind that this was all for her.

Nadir and Erik sat opposite each other with tea and wine, respectively, and both stood when she entered, Erik crossing the room to assist with her wrap.

"This is all so beautiful," she told him, her voice quite hoarse from illness.

He placed the mantle on the coat stand and turned to face her. In the candlelight, he was absolutely breathtaking: a vision of imposing darkness and sharp edges, with eyes like glowing coals. "Merry Christmas, my love," he said. "Allow me to fetch you a drink. Something hot, perhaps?"

"Yes, tea would be lovely, thank you."

She greeted Nadir while Erik fetched the tea, remarking that he seemed awfully at home for a man who did not observe the holiday.

"Let it be known," he informed her, eyes twinkling, "that I am merely present alongside you as you celebrate the birth of Christ, and not actively participating myself."

"Of course," she affirmed with a smile. "And if I am not mistaken, you are also allowed to accept gifts on this occasion, are you not?" She lifted the hatbox from where she had set it on a chair. Erik set her tea on a nearby table, watching with measured interest.

"That is true, yes, but you ought not to have—" The daroga paused. "Did that box just make a sound?"

She handed it to him. "Merry Christmas, Nadir."

He peered down at the parcel and then glanced back up at her nervously. "There are holes in this lid."

Clara shrugged in feigned innocence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik sidle closer for a better view.

Nadir lifted the lid of the box. A white paw darted out, swatting at his hand, and he yelped and withdrew so quickly that he nearly dropped the whole thing. Then he looked up in mild horror, exclaiming, "There is a _feline_ in here!"

As if on cue, the squat white face of a Persian cat popped up to survey the scene. It needed all of one second to determine that the drawing-room was preferable to the box, and it made an impressive leap to the loveseat from within, its sudden and powerful backspring startling the daroga so much that he really did drop the box this time.

Clara was mortified by Nadir's reaction. "I am so sorry," she said, reaching down to pick up the ball of snowy fur as it passed by. It sidestepped her grasp, trotting away and toward the fireplace. She straightened, palms out in appeal. "I would not normally spring an animal on someone, Nadir, but it needed a home after an acquaintance's mother died, and Erik had indicated that you were amenable to cats…" She trailed off, looking desperately to Erik for confirmation. He had his head down, turned aside so that she could not see his face, and his chest was shaking with silent laughter.

She narrowed her eyes at him and turned back to Nadir, cheeks aflame. "I see that I may have been misled. My apologies again, daroga."

He brought a hand to his chest, his face etched with gentle regret and sympathy. "Ah, my dear, I cannot fault you for such a kind gesture, nor for falling prey to the antics of a man who knows very well that felines and I shall never get along."

There was a soft _clink_ from the direction of the fireplace, and they looked over to find a small cow from the nativity scene lying on its side in front of the hearth. Next to it, the cat blinked at them innocently, sitting motionless save for its tail swishing back and forth across the floor.

As Erik walked over to return the figurine to the crèche, Clara turned back to Nadir and said, "Thankfully, I got you something else."

"Really, Clara, this is too much."

"I ordered it before the cat came into the picture," she assured him. "It is a genuine Persian samovar, and it will be delivered to you in the coming week or two. I can only hope that it adequately replaces the one you loved so much."

"Aha, so you have grown tired of my subpar tea," he joked. He reached out to clasp her hands. "Thank you, Clara. Truly, thank you."

She pivoted to face Erik, who had returned to her side with pursed lips, clearly struggling to repress his amusement. "I must confess," he said, "that I did not actually expect you to follow through. And to obtain a _Persian_ cat, no less!" A small giggle escaped his throat.

"At least it was not a kitten, you insufferable rogue," she retorted.

"Rogue," he repeated, turning the word over on his tongue. "I like that."

"You laugh now, but you have just acquired yourself a cat."

He stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, _I_ certainly cannot take her home."

Erik looked at the feline. The cat stared back, flicking its tail, clearly unimpressed. "It has _white_ fur," he said dryly.

"So?" she asked, and he gestured broadly to his person, decked head-to-toe in black with few exceptions. She shrugged and said, "That is hardly my problem."

His lips parted in surprise. "You little minx," he murmured, sidling closer. His gaze smoldered at her, and she met it with beguiling doe eyes.

"And would you like _your_ gift?" she asked sweetly.

"Mm. That depends," he replied. "Is it alive?"

"See for yourself." She handed him the small parcel, which fit within the palm of his hand. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with a bow of wine-colored satin.

She watched his long fingers untie the ribbon, pick apart the wrapping, and delicately extract from its box a small figurine, no longer than a matchbox, made of lacquered boxwood of the same orangey-brown hue as her hair: a carved fawn, with spindly legs tucked under its body, its head curling inward toward its flank.

"It's called a _netsuke_ ," she said as he examined it. "A wood carving from Japan."

Now that _Japonisme_ was all the rage among Céleste's circle of friends, she had dragged Clara to the gallery of a Japanese art dealer over in the rue de Rivoli, where they could examine his imported silks and folding screens and porcelain. Clara had been entranced by the objects, so beautiful in their simplicity and so extraordinarily tactile, but none had caught her attention as much as the tiny wood and ivory _netsuke_ , carved to resemble rats and monkeys and warriors and women.

It had been with the utmost surprise and delight that she spotted the fawn. When she had reached out to touch it, an unfamiliar voice beside her made her start. "The netsuke simply beg to be touched, do they not?"

The speaker, a sharply dressed Jewish man in his forties, then introduced himself as the gallery owner. "The objects were originally used as toggles for purse-strings," he had told her and Céleste, "but they have come to be admired for their exquisite craftsmanship and for the fact that they are so portable, so tactile. Go ahead; pick it up."

And so Clara had, turning the tiny carving over in her fingers, marveling at how a thing made of hard wood could somehow be so _soft_ , so soothing.

In the end, she had bought a dozen of the little netsuke, not wanting to call attention to the fawn in her aunt's presence. The others she had lined up on her dressing-table for the time being: an ivory sea crab, a wood carving of a mother and baby elephant, and perhaps the strangest, a girl wrapped in the various serpentine legs of an octopus.

Erik now rolled the fawn in his fingers just as she had. "I saw it and thought of you," she explained. "I thought that, if you wanted, you could carry it with you, as a memento. Of me. Netsuke are art, but they are also meant to...to be touched." The words spilled out before she had time to consider them, and she began to blush furiously as they reached her ears. He continued to examine the carving with a near-frown, making her second-guess her purchase.

"I know it's not much," she said, "and I wanted to get you something more, but then I fell ill and Aunt Céleste would not let me go out and—"

"Hush," he said. He ran the pad of his thumb over the deer's smooth flank, and she shivered. "I have not received a gift since…" He trailed off. Swallowed. "Since I was a child."

He closed the netsuke in his fist and tucked it into his pocket before leaning forward to press a kiss to her lips. "Thank you, my love. I could not have chosen something more perfect myself."

"I am sick," she protested. "You should not kiss me."

His irises flared defiantly and he leaned in again, his kiss more protracted this time. She felt her insides liquefying. She could practically hear Nadir rolling his eyes from across the room.

"I have a gift for you as well," Erik said. "But, my dear, you really must sit." He led her to a chair, his cool hand at the small of her back, and she was only too happy to oblige. Her head was beginning to swim, and there was a crushing fatigue threatening to take over her body.

It was a folded sheet of paper that he pressed into her hands. Clara glanced up at him, confused, but he only stepped back and crossed his arms to await her examination. She unfolded the paper and furrowed her eyebrows, trying to make sense of what she was looking at. "Attestation of ownership," she read aloud. "What does that—"

She stopped herself. It was all coming together now, the words on the page and her post-betrothal discussion with Erik. Her head shot up to look at him. "You bought a house?"

"I bought _you_ a house," he said quietly, "though I hope that I may join you there eventually."

She stared at him, stunned, as Nadir made a small noise in the back of his throat. "I, ah...have I missed something?"

"Ah, daroga, my friend—you shall be the first to know." Even as Erik spoke to his friend, it was Clara he fixed his gaze on, his voice thick with pride. "I have asked Clara for her hand."

She reached into her collar and pulled out the ring on its gold chain to show the daroga. "And I accepted," she added.

Nadir's jaw went slack. His gaze flicked from the ring to Erik to Clara. Then he pursed his lips, his eyes misting over as he clasped his hands together. "How blessed we are," he said quietly, "to see this day. I can think of no union more worthy of celebrating." He stood and crossed over to Clara. "I offer you my sincerest congratulations," he said, kissing her on the cheek, and then he rounded to Erik, where his handshake transitioned into a combination of hug and hearty pat on the back.

Erik tensed within his friend's arms. "Come now, daroga, you are going to drown us in these excessive sentiments," he said, but she could tell that he was pleased.

Nadir returned to his seat, grinning. "May Allah bless you both," he said, but his smile faded quickly. "I must confess, though, that I worry about the unintended consequences of this arrangement."

"Yes," she said. "That was part of our aim in gathering here tonight, to discuss how to proceed. We would value your input, daroga."

"I might have suggested you leave the city altogether, for a time," he replied, "but...it appears you now have a local residence?" He glanced down at the paper in her hands, which startled her into remembering where they had left off.

"You bought me a house!" she said to Erik, more incredulously now, and he laughed softly, coming over to sit by her side.

"I believe that it will suit both of our needs," he replied, "and you may take up residence as soon as you are ready."

"Both of our needs," she repeated softly. "You would give up the safety of this place? This sanctuary that you have given such loving attention?"

"I have spent the better part of my time here in utter misery and loneliness, being shunned by everyone—save you, of course, daroga." He put a hand to Clara's knee and looked at her intently. "Perhaps the better question would be, what would I _not_ sacrifice for my future wife?"

His words took her breath away, and all she could do was nod. Thankfully, Nadir had the presence of mind to ask the more practical questions about the house, such as location, and she sat quietly and listened to their discussion as her brain entertained thoughts of marriage and of sleep, blessed sleep, which tugged at her mind and body every few minutes with mounting impatience.

When the cat jumped up and moved to Erik's lap, he did not so much as flinch, instead smoothing his palm against the silky fur as he spoke with the daroga.

The three of them gradually moved into the dining room, and over a fine meal prepared by Erik, they discussed the best course of action for the newly engaged couple. The two of them wished to stay in the city, while Nadir dissented at first but gradually softened his stance.

"I have only one question," he said, "and it is rather important. Do you think, Clara, that your father will involve the police once he discovers what you've done?"

There came a weighty silence as she considered this. "No," she finally said. "No, I do not believe that he would go that far."

"Well, then. It is decided. In two weeks, Clara, you shall be a fugitive." He winked, and though she forced a smile at his quip, her stomach churned.

* * *

Nadir left after dessert. Clara was tempted to go with him, exhausted as she was, but as he donned his hat and coat Erik whispered into her ear, "I have one more surprise for you, my dear."

When they were alone, he unlatched his violin case and lifted the instrument from its lining. "I thought that we might play a carol or two," he said. "You will find the music already on the piano." She immediately brightened; after all of their time together, they still had yet to duet.

On the music stand were the pages for "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabelle"—her favorite, though she had never told him as much.

"I wonder that you might decrease the tempo," he said, coming to stand beside the piano. "I have long thought that this is a melody aching to slow down."

She coaxed the opening chords from the keys. "Like this?"

He nodded. "Perfect." He tucked his instrument under his chin and set bow to string, layering the dulcet croon of the violin over her playing, and she smiled at how well they fit together, at their resulting loveliness.

And then he started singing.

His voice was, as always, silk and molten gold. But now it had a lilt, a pulse, an ethereal quality that curled around her and seeped into her skin until it seemed to reverberate in her very soul.

Paired with any other face, his was a voice that could have entranced the Paris Opera. Convinced a non-believer of heaven. Held the ear of a king.

She was so entranced that she unwittingly stopped playing altogether, caught up in the way that his low tenor made even the simplest of words transcend the alluring sway of the violin. His eyes were closed, but he could not have been unaware of the fact that she had stopped playing, of the effect that he had on her.

 _Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabelle!  
_ _Bring a torch, to the stable call  
_ _Christ is born. Tell the folk of the village  
_ _Jesus is born and Mary's calling.  
_ _Ah! Ah! beautiful is the mother!  
_ _Ah! Ah! beautiful is her child._

Erik sang all four verses of the song, and when he opened his eyes, the violin and bow falling to his sides, she knew that they met a face streaked with tears. "Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded as he returned the violin to its enclosure. "And now you will always have a memento of me, my little fawn."

With one last burst of energy before illness rendered her incapable of coherent thought, she rose from the piano bench to wrap her arms around his waist. "Very soon," she said, "I will always have _you_. Period."

With one palm on either side of her face, he tilted her head up to kiss her, and for the briefest of moments she thought that she tasted music.

* * *

 _Wishing you all the happiest of holiday seasons! Thanks for sharing this one with me. :) Return to non-fluff in the next chapter._


	30. Ghosts

The Sunday of Clara's intended departure was quite temperate for early January. After mass, Céleste suggested that the two of them take the coach to the Tuileries for an afternoon stroll, and Clara accepted, all too aware of how bittersweet the outing would be.

It seemed that all of Paris had the same idea. Young families were especially prominent, and as the two women made their way in from the east entrance, their gazes lingered on an identical pair of little girls in matching white dresses and bonnets, clinging to their mother's skirts, until Clara was nearly bowled over by a handful of schoolchildren chasing a spaniel across the way.

"Rascals!" she remarked, but she was smiling. She had not seen Erik since Christmas, and even her mounting anxiety over what she was about to do could not erode her eagerness to see him again.

"How refreshing to find you in such a pleasant mood," Céleste remarked. "It has been disheartening to see you so glum since Monsieur Giovanni left us."

Clara's head snapped to look at her aunt. "Did father tell you what happened?"

She shook her head. "No, you know how withdrawn he can be. But he did not have to tell me; I could guess at the nature of things. Goodness knows I spent enough time in the drawing-room with the two of you during those lessons."

"But...you said nothing, auntie, all this time."

She smiled. "Ah, well, you ought to know quite well by now that the Toussaints do not speak on matters of emotional significance."

"Until now?"

"Consider it my resolution for the new year. It has occurred to me that, had I not been too steeped in my own grief last year to help you through yours, perhaps we might have staved off whatever loneliness led to this development."

Clara's face fell. Was that all that her aunt thought this was? An attachment born of loneliness? But then Céleste added, "Though I am not certain what it was that helped you overcome _your_ grief, my dear, I suspect that you should hold onto it."

Again Clara looked at her aunt, wondering just how much she suspected and whether her statement was meant to be some clandestine form of approval. How could she ask without giving herself away? And would it even matter, with Henri still so vehemently opposed?

Still, she thought, it would be nice to have someone on her side. Someone who could see the value in Erik.

It seemed some kind of cosmic joke that fate would choose that moment to present her with a familiar crop of russet-brown hair peeking out from beneath a black hat, atop a pair of broad shoulders in a well-cut jacket. She found relief only in the fact that Isaac Verne's back was to her, that he was farther up the large and crowded central walkway, and that he had the arm of a tiny brunette who was likely capturing his attention in that moment—his new bride, she surmised.

She stopped with sudden feigned interest to take in a sculpture of Spartacus as a boy, his shoulders propping up a freshly crucified slave, his face etched with a determined thirst for justice. "Perhaps we ought to explore one of the side avenues today," she suggested, gesturing toward the tree-lined alley that intersected their path just ahead. But there must have been some detectable urgency in her request, because Céleste followed Clara's previous line of sight, and it was evident in her raised eyebrows that she had spotted Verne.

"No one faults you for that turn of events, you know," she said, her voice soft and low.

"Father does," Clara countered. "He made that quite clear."

Céleste linked her arm with her niece's and gently led her back to their walking path, but at a slower speed to keep them a fair distance behind the couple. "He may have said as much out of anger," she replied, "but your father has a long history of lashing out when the blame is his to bear. I told him as far back as September that he ought not to waste any more time on Monsieur Verne."

Clara threw her a sidelong glance. "Why, auntie?"

"That dinner after your first piano lesson." Céleste squeezed her arm, patted her hand. "I may not be your mother, Clara, nor the most perceptive woman on the whole. But I have raised you as my own this last quarter-century, and I dare say that I know you better than most. I saw it in your face the moment he fell from your favor. Besides," she added with a sly smile, "it was obvious to everyone in that dining room that Verne was the lesser man."

Clara's insides warmed with relief, and she turned to smile at her aunt. "Yes," she said, "I dare say he was."

They continued walking, maintaining their safe distance from Verne and his bride. "Did I ever tell you that your uncle was of a standing inferior to mine?" Céleste asked, and when Clara looked to her in surprise, she nodded. "Oh, yes. Enough to give your grandparents pause when he asked for my hand."

"And what would you have done had they opposed the match?"

"Oh, I would have respected their wishes," her aunt replied with a sigh. "But I likely would have spent the rest of my life in regret."

She said this so pointedly that Clara was shocked into speechlessness. How else was she to interpret this conversation now but as a form of encouragement? Oh, how she longed to confide in the older woman in that moment. But she knew that she could not endanger her plans with Erik, and so she bit her tongue.

They were coming up on another crossroads in the tree-lined portion of the gardens, and as Clara debated what to say instead, she caught sight of a familiar brown suit and boat-shaped hat. Really, was _everybody_ in the Tuileries that afternoon?

She should not have been surprised to see Nadir there, not when his apartment overlooked these very gardens, but she did a double-take regardless, for one simple reason: there was a woman on his arm. And Clara recognized that woman's petite frame, her simple black dress, her cluster of chestnut curls. It was Adele.

The pair appeared to be on a leisurely stroll, their conversation sunny and effortless. There was something in the daroga's stance and expression that she had never seen before, a sort of carefree innocence, as though he had shed an easy decade or two of his life in Adele's presence.

As Clara watched, a stray brown leaf drifted onto his hat, and Adele stopped walking to reach up and retrieve it, grinning as she held it before him. She spoke, but Clara could not make out her words. Nadir smiled back and lifted an arm as if to pluck the leaf from Adele's fingers. Instead, though, his broad hand enveloped her small one, and they simply stood there, hands clasped, beaming at each other.

Clara began to feel as though she was intruding on a private moment, despite its very public setting. How had she missed this development? Moreover, why had Nadir neglected to say anything? She had always had a mental picture of the daroga confiding in no one but her and Erik, keeping to himself in his flat whenever he was not with them; he had just shattered that image, leaving her to question every assumption she'd ever had about him.

His head began to turn in her direction, and she quickly looked away, trying to spare all three of them the awkward exchange that must take place if they acknowledged each other. It occurred to her, however, that Céleste would likely recognize Nadir from their brief meeting in November, and if there was one thing that woman loved, it was a run-in with an acquaintance and its resulting chitchat.

"Auntie," Clara said, "I am suddenly quite tired. I did not sleep well last night. Might we head back to the coach?"

Céleste frowned and pivoted so that they could walk back the way they had come. "Of course, dear. We can talk more tomorrow."

 _No, we cannot_ , Clara thought somberly, but she maintained her loyal silence for the rest of the return trip.

* * *

At last night fell. Clara let the maid help her dress for bed, and then she began to pack her carpet bag by dim candlelight.

The new house would have everything she needed, Erik had assured her, even a new wardrobe. She packed only those items that could not be replaced: the hair combs belonging to her mother and sister, for example, and the music that Erik had written for her, which she had snuck upstairs earlier that day.

Then, from the hidden compartment at the base of her jewelry box, she extracted her engagement ring on its chain. She held it in her palm for a long moment, debating whether to slip it on her finger—freedom was _so close_ —but she ultimately decided against it. Around her neck it went, the band safely tucked between chemise and skin.

Last, she sat at her desk to write a letter of explanation to her father. In it, she thanked him for his concern but expressed that she could not see any path forward besides one with Erik, and she concluded by noting that she would follow up with additional correspondence.

Her eyes moistened as she wrote, and yet the finished note sounded coldly detached when she read it over. But with Erik due at any moment, it would have to suffice for now. She folded the page and addressed it to her father, and then she set it on her desk where it might be seen.

As if on cue, the doors to her balcony creaked open. Erik pushed through the thick curtains and into her room. "My fawn," he greeted her, and his voice was hoarse. "Are you ready?"

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, but...Erik, what is wrong with your voice? Are you ill?"

"Ah," he said. "You must excuse me; I seem to have contracted your cold."

"That would have been two weeks ago," she replied. "How long have you been sick?"

He pursed his lips. "About two weeks."

"You would not be so ill this late, not from a cold."

He hesitated. "No," he said. "I suspect that it has progressed into...something else." His gaze met hers, and the tired sobriety in his frightfully dull eyes told her that he knew exactly what that something else was. Yet, he did not say it.

 _No_.

Clara's brain teetered between panicking and shutting down completely. _Nonononono._

Erik's eyes flickered shut and he began to sway, snapping her out of her panic. She ran over to steady him, draping his arm over her shoulders as she led him to the bed. She was stunned by the heat emanating from his body. "You are burning up," she said as they sat together on the mattress, and he simply nodded.

"You ridiculous man," she whispered. "How could you let this fester?"

"That is _not_ what I was doing," he protested, and there was a low wheeze in his chest. "Rather, I have been attempting to heal myself through sheer force of will." Another wheeze. "It appears, though, that I have not met my self-imposed deadline."

"We have to get you to a doctor."

He shook his head. "No doctors."

"Nadir, then."

Erik sighed, his eyelids fluttering once again. "When we get to the house," he conceded, his voice so very thin. "But please, Clara, we must leave _now_. I cannot contain this terrible cough much longer, and I fear it will wake the household."

She was on her feet in an instant, throwing on a lavender dressing gown over her pale nightdress. "And how did you plan to travel there?" she asked as she tied the sash. "You can barely stand as it is, and—Erik!" She broke off with a gasp, rushing toward him as he fell back onto the mattress, his body convulsing with chills. His hat fell off, and she tossed it aside. She could hear his teeth clacking as she hooked her arms under his to drag his head up to the pillows.

How did one even treat a fever that presented with chills? She squeezed her eyes shut, straining to recall what had been done for Margot in that stage of her illness, before—no. She could not let her mind go there.

She tugged the covers out from beneath Erik's prone and shivering form, and she covered him with only a sheet. Then she soaked a cloth in the now-lukewarm water in her washbasin and slipped it under the edge of the mask to hold it to his forehead, clasping his bony fingers in her free hand as she did so. They were still cool to the touch, but less so than usual, and clammy as well.

"Can you hear me, love?" she asked him with quiet desperation. "What can I do? Please, tell me what you need."

His eyes flickered open to look at her but then shuttered just as quickly. He continued to shiver, and she tried to ignore the lump forming in her throat. She needed help, but was there time to fetch Nadir? Could she even bring herself to leave Erik's side? No. No, she could not. The question was, then, whether she ought to adhere to his wishes.

He decided for her, erupting into loud, dry coughs that rattled in his chest and made her cringe in their similarity to Margot's. How long before someone heard and came to investigate? And then Clara knew what she must do. She ran for the door and flung it open—and ran straight into her father.

"Oh, papa," she breathed, her relief outweighing her fear in the moment. "Please, I need your help."

Erik suffered another cough attack behind her, and Henri's eyes blazed as he pushed past her and into the room, revealing the butler, Bertrand, standing in the hallway behind him.

Henri stopped at the sight of the masked man wheezing under her sheet. "That scoundrel is in your _bed_ ," he growled.

"Because I put him there!" she said, grabbing her father's arm to impede any further movement. "Please, father, I think he has pneumonia. I did not know what else to do." She tightened her grip, her face pleading. "Just help me, and then I will explain everything. I cannot let him suffer."

Her father stalked across her room to stand over Erik, glaring down at him with arms crossed until he had apparently satisfied himself that the man was, in fact, ill. Then he exhaled loudly through his nostrils and looked up at the butler, who had moved to stand in the doorway behind Clara. "Bertrand, please send for Dr. Leblanc," he instructed. "Indicate that it is urgent, but say nothing of the patient. Not yet." Bertrand nodded and slipped away.

Arms still crossed, Henri now looked to Clara. "Explain."

She bit her bottom lip. "He was here to pick me up," she confessed. "There were arrangements made for me to reside elsewhere, until we could—" She paused, swallowed. "Until we could wed."

His jaw went slack, and he stepped back a few paces to sink into the chair at her desk. "You would have run away without so much as a word?" he asked hoarsely.

Even as she gestured to the note on the surface next to him, she felt herself shrinking. "I wrote a letter," she said, her voice small.

He unfolded the sheet of paper, and as he read it, frowning, she crossed over to Erik to lift the folded cloth from his brow. It was now heated through, and she submerged it in the washbasin again before placing it back on his forehead. She heard a rustle of paper and swiveled to find Henri crushing the letter in his fist.

He said nothing, though, so she perched on the foot of the bed, content to sit in silence save for the occasional coughing spasm from Erik. With each one she would feel the ghost of her past breathing down of her neck, and a small part of her would die.

It was another forty minutes before the doctor arrived. Henri met him at the door as Clara rinsed the cloth for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to hear their murmured exchange. Finally, Dr. Leblanc crossed to the bedside, nodding at her as she returned the compress to Erik's forehead. "A shrewd decision, mademoiselle," he told her. "You may have saved his life with that alone, if his fever was as bad as I suspect. But let us take a look."

She moved to the loveseat while he opened his bag. The bedroom door creaked open again, and in stepped Céleste in her dressing gown, bleary-eyed and frowning. "What is all this commotion about?" she asked.

Erik let out another rattling cough as though in answer, and her gaze flicked to the bed, where he now lay in a less fitful sleep. Her eyes went wide. "Oh, Clara," she breathed—whether in sympathy or in disappointment, Clara could not say. Without another word, Céleste came to sit beside her in wait.

Clara sat, fists clenched and knuckles white, as Dr. Leblanc listened to Erik's heart and lungs. "Pneumonia," he confirmed, and the room began to spin around her. She pitched forward, steadying her head in her hands, and was vaguely aware of someone repeating her name.

"I must get word to Nadir," she whispered to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, and sat up. "I have to send a message," she announced to nobody in particular, louder this time, and then she grabbed a pen and paper before bolting across the room, only to catch herself in the doorway. She turned back to face the others. "Please," she said, "do not remove his mask, under any circumstances." They stared back in confusion, but no one objected, and so she ran.

Downstairs, she grabbed the first servant she could find: a footman, likely the one who had fetched the doctor. "I need you to deliver this immediately," she said, scribbling a message on the page. "Nadir Khan, 224 Rue de Rivoli, apartment 4B." She handed the note to the young man and added, "It is quite urgent. You must knock until he answers."

"Yes, mademoiselle." The footman offered a small bow, and then he was off to the coach house. She watched him retreat, wondering what she expected Nadir to do once he responded to her summons. Should he remove Erik from her home? Could Erik even _be_ moved? And what then?

The daroga would know what to do, she decided, and she pushed those thoughts away for the time being as she ducked into the kitchen to fetch Erik a glass of water.

She was at the bottom of the staircase, returning to the scene, when she heard it: a chaotic burst of shouting, followed by Céleste's bone-chilling scream.

The drinking glass shattered against the landing. Clara's legs carried her up the stairs as fast as humanly possible.

She passed Bertrand on her way down the hall, running in the opposite direction with a look of frantic determination on his face, but in her haste she did not question him. She ran straight into her bedroom and froze.

Erik was awake. He was awake, and on his feet, and he wore no mask. His eyes burned like hellfire in the dimly lit space, and the trembling candlelight cast ominous shadows across the sallow grooves of his death's-head of a face. His lips formed a sneer that was made even more sinister by the presence of the dark, cavernous nose-hole above it.

He was tense and slightly crouched, as though spring-loaded, and he held up one palm, fingers splayed, as if to halt the others in their tracks. His other hand gripped the Punjab lasso, its opposite end wound perilously around the doctor's neck.

"Stay _back_ ," he hissed. His eyes darted back and forth between Henri and the doctor, not even seeing her.

Henri put his hands up in deference, but his tongue was less accommodating. "Don't do anything you'll regret, Giovanni," he warned.

"What happened?" Clara cried. Four pairs of eyes fixed on her suddenly, one of them yellow and unfocused.

"Dr. Leblanc removed the mask," Céleste said, her voice quivering. "He said it hardly mattered since the man was asleep."

"I needed to do a full examin—" The doctor's words cut off with a choking sound as the lasso tightened around his windpipe.

"Erik!" Clara gasped, and she lunged for him. Hands grasped at her arms and shoulders, pulling her back, but she shook them off, not caring whether they belonged to her father or her aunt or both.

Erik watched her approach, looking very much like a cornered and feral creature hell-bent on his own survival, but he stayed motionless while she circled him at a respectable distance. He let her come up behind him, and when she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing herself to his back in reassurance, she felt him slacken.

"Let go, my love," she murmured into his shoulder blades. "He was only trying to help."

His hand, the one not holding the lasso, came to rest on hers where they met just above his navel. He turned his head as far back as it would go in order to address her. "My mask," he rasped.

She nodded her understanding and crossed over to the nightstand where it lay. The room was utterly quiet as she ferried it back to him, save for the distant echo of voices and footsteps on the floor below. Henri and Céleste watched her in some combination of awe and disbelief, while the doctor sucked in shallow breaths, his face an unhealthy shade of crimson.

Clara slipped the black mask into place herself, allowing Erik to maintain control of both hands. A small sigh escaped his lips once she finished. He flicked his wrist to retract the lasso, leaving Dr. Leblanc to fall, gasping, to his knees.

Once satisfied that the doctor would be all right, Clara curled her arm around Erik's waist in order to lead him back to the bed. He stood still, resisting.

"Clara!" her father barked. "Get away from that...that _monster_ , this instant!"

Beside her, Erik went rigid.

She took a deep, shaky breath. "He is no monster," she replied. "He is my fiancé, and his name is Erik."

There was a moment of stunned silence before Dr. Leblanc, still kneeling, muttered, "Dear Lord in heaven."

Clara ignored him. "He is nearly delirious with fever," she said, "and his only safeguard was taken from him. Can you not understand how he might feel threatened?"

"What I cannot understand," Henri replied dubiously, "is how a man could be so acutely _lethal_ when he is supposedly delirious."

She glanced up at Erik, who was leaning on her with increasing reliance even as his surveillance of the others remained sharp, and she suspected that she had little time to work with before his legs gave out. How could she establish enough trust in the room for him to safely lie down?

"Perhaps if you imagined spending decades in hiding," she said, "spending every waking moment on your guard, after being hunted and beaten solely on account of your God-given face, then you might begin to understand how self-defense could become a reflex." Her grip on him tightened even further, and she laid her cheek on his shoulder as hot tears pricked her eyes. "How awful that must be, to have survival be your only aim in a world that does not want you to have it. Will you not even grant him that, in this moment?"

She looked back at her family. Céleste had tears running down her face; Henri appeared to be at war with himself. "No," he finally said, shaking his head fervently. "I cannot just stand aside and expose my only daughter to someone so dangerous." He charged forward as he spoke, moving to grab Clara's wrist, but Erik swiftly inserted himself between them, glowering at her father, who stopped in his tracks.

"Move aside, Giovanni," Henri hissed. "She is not yours to take."

"Nor is she yours to withhold," Erik replied. His voice was scratchy, paper-thin, and fading. It threatened to break her.

"Be that as it may, you are overstepping your bounds. I will warn you that, as we speak, my man has sent for the police and is fetching my pistol. Best-case scenario for you, my friend, is that you will be behind bars before long."

Clara tensed and clutched Erik's hand, looking up to him for guidance. Perhaps they would need to run after all.

But his lips curled into a caustic smile, and he started laughing.

He laughed—not the hypnotic, sing-song cackle that she had heard from him before, but something far more devious, crackling with bitterness, punctuated by wheezes and hacking coughs. "Ah, Toussaint," he said, "I have spent enough time in a cage to know that I would happily die before I saw the inside of one again." He emitted another low, gravelly laugh and then bellowed, much louder this time, "No matter, my friends! You shall never put Erik behind bars, for it is not possible to capture a ghost!"

As they all looked on in disbelief, he laughed again and again in a building crescendo.

And then Erik, ghost of the Paris Opera, fainted dead away.


	31. Her Mother's Daughter

This story will be drawing to a close rather soon; expect to see probably two more chapters and then an epilogue. I hope that you will be patient with me as I work to get the details just right and tie up loose ends. As always, your feedback means the world. :)

* * *

Because Erik was leaning on her, Clara felt it the moment his legs gave out. She could not stop him from collapsing entirely, but even as she let out a horrified gasp, she was able to catch his torso before it hit the floor. She hooked her hands under his arms and began to drag him back to the bed while the others looked on in stunned silence. "Will none of you help?" she pleaded, just as Bertrand returned.

"The police have been summoned, monsieur," he said, and he gave Henri his pistol. "I took the liberty of ensuring that it was loaded."

Time seemed to slow as Clara watched her father's fingers close on the grip of the gun. "Thank you, Bertrand," he said quietly, all the while frowning at the weapon. The mere presence of it in his hand, that means of easy death, paralyzed her with fear. She remained rooted to the spot, still holding Erik beneath his arms. When Henri ran a fingertip down the slim gun barrel and then glanced at Erik's prone form, she thought that she might vomit.

"On second thought," he said, "I do not believe I shall need this." He set it on the dressing-table and walked over to Clara, nudging her aside as he replaced her hands beneath Erik's. "Bertrand, will you assist me, please?" The butler hastened to lift Erik's legs, and together the two men lifted him onto the mattress, where Clara draped the sheet over his thin figure once more.

"Thank you," she whispered to her father. She slipped her hand beneath the top edge of Erik's mask to check his fever. His skin still burned, though not as terribly as before.

"I hope that you are not softening your stance toward the man, Monsieur Toussaint," said Dr. Leblanc. "I fully intend to press charges."

Clara rounded on the doctor. "If you send him to jail with this illness, then you condemn him to death!"

"He was not so troubled by the idea of _my_ death; why should I be troubled by his?"

Her mouth fell open and she replied, bitterly, "Do you show such compassion toward _all_ of your patients, monsieur?"

The doctor let out a low, caustic laugh. "An ethics lesson from the girl with a secret fiancé in her bed! I might have expected this from your sister, Clara, but not from you."

"Enough!" Henri bellowed, his jaw tighter than she had ever seen. He snatched up the pistol from the dressing-table. "A word in my study, Clara. Bertrand, see to it that Monsieur Giovanni is kept comfortable but stationary, and Céleste, perhaps a coffee for the doctor in the meantime?"

Clara had entirely forgotten her aunt, who seemed to have shrunk against the sofa, looking utterly lost among all the proceedings. "Of course," the older woman said, rising from her seat. Her voice was hoarse, her face pale.

It was with great reluctance that Clara left the bedside to follow her father downstairs, but she was all too aware that Erik's fate rested in his hands. She forced herself to seethe silently at the doctor's words, and for perhaps the first time in her life, she understood the appeal of exacting revenge.

Once inside the study, Henri shut the door with considerable force. "Sit down," he commanded. He wasted no time in pulling a small key from his waistcoat pocket to unlock a desk drawer, where he deposited the pistol before slamming the drawer shut.

Clara sat, but not without protest. "Your first priority is to chastise _me?"_ she asked. "After what that horrible man said about Margot?"

He stalked over to his liquor tray and yanked the stopper from a decanter of brandy. He spoke through gritted teeth as he poured the amber liquid into a snifter. "I will deal with the doctor in due course, Clara, but _he_ is not my daughter. So I would like to know: how long have you been secretly betrothed?"

At any other time she would have cowed to his intimidation, averted her gaze as she shrank into her chair. Now, however, she had something to fight for. She straightened and looked him dead in the eyes, those blue irises that so resembled her own. "One month," she replied. "Since the day you ended our lessons."

"And what were you planning to do," he asked, "without my approval?"

She outlined their plans as quickly as possible, unsure what to make of his rigidly unchanging expression. Before he could interject, she added, "Please, father, I beg of you to table this discussion until I know that Erik is safe. I have sent for Monsieur Khan, who is a mutual friend, and I know he will come. He can take Erik back to his flat and care for him there."

"A mutual friend," Henri repeated. He was leaning against his desk now, and he looked down into his brandy, swirling it in the glass before he took a long sip. "I can only wonder how large this web of deceit has grown, and for how long."

"I will tell you everything." She said this as a promise, not an enticement. "Just as soon as—"

She was cut off by a loud banging on the front door, farther down the hall, and from muted snippets of the ensuing commotion it was evident that the police had arrived. Her breath hitched and she looked to her father, wild-eyed, as her hands began to tremble. "Papa," she whispered, suddenly no more than a helpless child again. "Please."

Henri set the snifter on the desk. "Clara, I ask that you remain here while I attend to these matters. There is no good that can come of your being underfoot at this moment."

"But papa—"

"I need you to trust me," he said sharply, "to do what is best for everyone."

She squeezed her eyelids shut. Did she trust him? _He is your papa,_ she told herself, even as the first teardrop skidded down her cheek, _and he has only ever kept you safe and secure._

Clara opened her eyes again, lips quivering, and nodded. He moved for the door.

"Papa?"

At the sound of her voice, he paused with his hand on the knob before turning back to face her. "I need you to trust me, too," she said. "He saved my life, in every way possible."

Her father stared at her for a moment, his expression sober, and then he slipped out into the hall. She heard the click of the lock as the door closed behind him.

She crossed over to the door and sat beside it on the cold floor, pressing her ear to the lacquered wood, but the voices in the distance had grown quieter. Whether the police had been led to the drawing-room or her bedroom upstairs, she could not say.

The next ten minutes felt like an eon, especially when the chill of the room began to seep through Clara's nightclothes and freeze her fingers, the fire in the hearth having been doused hours before. Her muscles kept knotting with worry, and she felt powerless to stop it.

Her gaze fell on the brandy, and she emitted a strangled sort of laugh-sob as she recalled the last time she had consumed the liquor: curled up on Erik's sofa, similarly tense, as he prepared to suture the finger that she had sliced with a bread knife. The night, he had said, that she'd captured his heart.

When had he captured hers? She could not even say. It seemed as though he had always been there, her dark guardian angel, to save her from disappearing completely.

She went to the decanter and poured herself a glass. It was not any easier to swallow this time, so she pinched her nose and gulped it down, relishing the heat that coursed down her esophagus and radiated out to her extremities. Then she sank into an armchair, and she waited.

* * *

She woke to the crackling of fire and a slice of light cutting in through a gap in the curtains. She had not been aware of falling asleep, but she now found herself draped in a blanket, with a stiffness in the side of her neck to indicate that she had been dozing in her chair for some time. The realization startled her into a panic, and she threw off the blanket as she jumped to her feet.

Not far away, Henri watched her from behind his desk, a nib pen balanced between fingertips, apparently having halted mid-correspondence. The gas lamps were on now, and a fire blazed in the hearth. Her heart plummeted in her chest. "How long have I been asleep?" she asked hoarsely.

"Hours," he replied. "It is nearly eight o'clock in the morning."

Clara cursed herself inwardly, then swallowed and asked the question to which she did not want, but needed, an answer. "And...where is Erik?"

"Gone." He set down the pen, and she tried very hard to maintain her balance in a suddenly spinning room as she waited for him to elaborate. "Monsieur Khan has taken charge of him," he continued, rising from his seat.

Her knees weakened in relief. "And Dr. Leblanc?"

"He has accepted a hefty sum for his collaboration in attributing the patient's actions to delirium and refusing to press charges. Far too hefty, in fact, given his behavior. I can at least assure you that he is no longer the family physician."

In two long strides she had thrown herself at her father, exhaling her relief. "Thank you," she choked out. She felt his arms snake around her back, hesitantly, and it was only the second time in perhaps a decade that she recalled truly embracing him. She felt as though she was eight years old again, begging his forgiveness for some minor infraction.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know that I ought to be dutiful and agreeable, like mother was, but Margot's death loosed something in me and I just cannot—"

Henri cut her off with a finger. "She was miserable," he said quietly.

Clara pulled back, frowning. "What?"

He sighed and led her by the hand to a pair of armchairs, guiding her to the one that she had slept in while he sat in the other. "Your mother. She hated society life, all of it, and I knew it before I married her. She yearned for something different, and I did not know how to give it to her." He removed his spectacles to massage bloodshot eyes with his fingertips. "I thought that I could change her mind, that she would be happy once we were together."

"But she was not."

"No. Not until the promise of you and Margot, at any rate. It is one of life's great tragedies that she was denied the joys of motherhood. But even then, I suspect that she would have eventually sought more than what her life had to offer."

It was a stunning thing, to learn that one's idea of one's mother had been misinformed for nearly a quarter-century. She was not even certain how to react. "Why did you tell me otherwise?" she asked instead.

"Oh, Clara. I knew early on that Margot was out of my reach, but you were so docile, so eager to please, that I thought, what could be the harm in encouraging your God-given sweetness if it meant that you would stay close by?"

She briefly closed her eyes against the sudden sting of...what? Betrayal? Perhaps that was too strong a word; after all, she of all people knew how easy it was for a little white lie to expand and morph, over time, into something so large and slippery that it skittered out of one's grasp entirely. No, he had done what Erik had been guilty of, on more than one occasion: deciding, without her knowledge, what would be best for her. But she could not allow it any longer, and she suspected that he now realized this, too.

"Do you know what I thought when I first met Monsieur Giovanni?" he asked, and she shook her head. "I saw how little he relied on the approval of others, how he engaged you and coaxed you out of your shell, and I thought, 'There is the man who would have known how to give my Alice what she needed.' And, God forgive me, I selfishly desired to keep you from him."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Why?" she asked feebly.

Here his mouth trembled ever so slightly, and as he spoke, she saw a lone teardrop forge a trail of moisture down his cheek. "Clara," he rasped, "you are the last vestige of the small family that I created. If I let you go, if I do not protect you, I—" He stared down into his lap, swallowed, and then shook his head vehemently. "But no," he said, "I will not be the villain again." He fixed his tired eyes on her face. "Go to him, Clara."

Oh, Erik. There was no more time to waste.

She scrambled to her feet and trapped her father in a fast embrace. "You are no villain, papa," she assured him, "and I will be back." Without even changing out of her nightclothes, she flew to the coach house for her horse.

* * *

At Nadir's flat, she threw the door open without so much as a knock. The daroga stood in his tiny kitchen, in front of the new samovar, blinking at her. "The bedroom," he said, and she headed there without a word.

Erik was asleep in the four-poster bed, covered with a sheet and the same ivory wool blanket that had warmed her from her fall into the Seine. She knelt on the floor beside him and gazed at the few parts of him that she could see: lips, pale and thin; chin and neck; the edge of his forehead where it sloped into his wig. How fragile he looked now in comparison to that night on the bridge, so long ago, when he had cemented his place in her life.

And oh, how fragile he sounded, his breathing labored even in slumber. Every inhalation was a quiet gasp; every exhalation crackled through his lungs. Sometimes he would cough, the pained rattling enough to make her cringe.

Clara slipped her arm under the covers to find and squeeze his hand, but when she did so, her fingers came into contact with some sort of object, smooth and firm. She lifted the edge of the bedding to investigate. There, clutched tightly against his palm, was the little boxwood fawn that she had given him for Christmas. She sucked in a shaky breath, cupping her hand over his fist.

"He has woken a few times," said Nadir quietly behind her. "He asked about you."

"How is he doing?" she asked. "Will he…?" She gestured broadly to his person, not daring to speak the question lodged in her throat.

"It is too soon to say. I was able to bring his fever down some, but he still struggles to breathe."

"I should have been here," she replied. "I should have gone with you when you came to the house. I—I had a drink to calm my nerves, and I fell asleep. I was not thinking."

"Do not fret over it, Clara. A caretaker who does not also take care of herself can be of only so much use."

"You are right," she said. "And so you must also rest, Nadir. Let me watch over him a while."

"Perhaps for an hour or two," he conceded, "but then I must go out and see what I can find in the way of treatment. You will wake me if needed?"

"Yes, daroga." She watched him extract a spare blanket from beneath the bed and take it out to the sitting-area, closing the door gently behind him. Then she lifted the bedcovers and slipped in beside Erik, draping her arm over his slim torso, watching him sleep.

She had just begun to drift off herself when he stirred. She stiffened, willing his golden eyes to open and find hers, and she nearly wept with joy when they did.

"My intended," he murmured, his voice a tragic shell of its former self. "Though perhaps you would not have agreed to marry me had you known how infirm this body was, hmm?"

"Don't be daft," she said. "You know as well as I do that anyone can contract this sickness." She grazed his cold lips with her own warm ones: a ghost of a kiss. "Though, when I am your wife, I will ensure that it never comes to fruition again."

"My wife," he repeated. "Now that is something that I would have wished to see."

She struggled to maintain her composure, barely managing to keep her voice steady as she replied, "And so you shall."

"Ah," he replied, the word little more than a reverent sigh. "What a pleasure it has been to see your confidence bloom, my fawn." He gave her a wan smile. "Though I daresay that my little fawn has become a doe."

"Then I shall have to get you another netsuke as a wedding gift," she said. "Now hush; you must save your breath. Try to sleep."

"You and the daroga," he murmured, his eyelids fluttering. "Always trying to shut me up." But he slipped easily back into slumber, and she kissed his lips again, bent on committing every part of him to memory.

No sooner had she slid out of the bed, intending to wake Nadir, when the Persian nudged the door open. He held a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a small plate of his seeded flatbread and soft cheese in the other, and he set them on the nightstand before pulling a chair closer to the bed for her. She thanked him, her stomach rumbling even as she tore into the bread. How long had it been since she had last eaten?

He left her to eat in peace, slipping out into the busy Rue de Rivoli for medicinal supplies. She polished off the bread and cheese and then washed it down with tea. The brew from the samovar was more potent than what she was used to, but she did not dislike it.

When she was done, she cleaned her dishes in the kitchen and selected a book from Nadir's collection on the way back to the bedroom. She sat and read for the remainder of her watch, pausing only when Erik stirred and woke, briefly, once more. His eyes alighted on her long enough for him to murmur, "Sky-goddess," and then he fell back asleep.

She watched him for a moment, and then she set the book down in order to unclasp the gold chain from her neck. She removed the engagement ring and slipped it onto her finger, where she was determined that it would stay.

Nadir returned with a paper sack. "I obtained a poultice and an expectorant, among other things," he reported, and he set the parcel on the bedside table. "I also sent word to Adele regarding our current and foreseeable absences."

Clara's eyes widened as she recalled the Tuileries the day before, but she bit her tongue. Her reaction, however, was not lost on the daroga. "It's all right, Clara," he said softly. "I suspected that you saw us together."

She looked down into her lap and picked at the lace trim of her dressing-gown. "I apologize for not acknowledging you, daroga. I thought…" She trailed off, not sure what she thought, really, except that she had glimpsed something not meant for her knowledge.

"You thought that I would not want you to know of our courtship," he deduced, "because I did not tell you about it in the first place."

She nodded, and he moved to sit in the other chair, crossing his legs to rest clasped hands upon his knee. "It was out of fear, and embarrassment, that I first withheld my intentions," he said. "I have not courted a woman in decades, Clara, and I did not expect things to progress as well as they have. After that, well—I could not figure out how to break the news."

Here she could not help but smile. "The two of you looked so happy together," she remarked.

He grinned back, and were his skin not already so dark, she would have expected to see it flush. "I confess, I feel like a schoolboy again."

"Does Erik know?"

"I thought not," Nadir said, "until he asked me in a brief snap of consciousness today whether he was keeping me from my 'new paramour.'" He shook his head. "I cannot keep anything from that man. I suspect that he has known for some time. Anyway, enough talk of me." He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a brass key, which he leaned forward to hand to her. "He wanted me to give you this."

She turned it over in her palm. "The house key?"

He nodded. "The expectorant will make him even drowsier; he will not be awake for some time. Go home in the meantime, Clara, and allow yourself a hot bath and a fresh change of clothes."

Home. Her new home, the one she was to eventually share with her betrothed, the one she had not yet seen.

She ought not to leave him, she thought. But modesty and curiosity won out, in the end, and she agreed.

* * *

Erik had chosen a home in the sixth arrondissement, south of the Seine, on a quiet, tree-lined street that ended at the Odéon Theatre. The building overlooked the Luxembourg Gardens and was perhaps a ten-minute walk from the asylum. It was also in the vicinity of several universities, and while he was careful to avoid the pockets of student lodging, he thought that the area's more progressive atmosphere would work in his favor should he venture outside.

She had been stunned to learn that he owned not just a floor or two, but the entirety of the five-story building. "What on _earth_ do we need five stories for?" she had asked in protest.

"Whatever our hearts desire," he had replied flippantly, before adding, in all seriousness, "I cannot have strangers living above or below me, Clara. Please—I require so little else." And, well, she could not deny him that, especially not once he hinted at offering a floor to the daroga, in time.

He had not yet completed the furnishings on the fourth floor, where he had decided to put their living quarters, but he hoped that it would be sufficient for her purposes, he had told her.

That was, as she ought to have guessed, an understatement. The drawing-room that she walked into was nothing short of perfect: lush carpets beneath furniture of gleaming rosewood and walnut, the pieces accented with gilded edges and intricate carvings and inlays of marble or mother-of-pearl. Yet there was nothing ostentatious about it; it was elegant but cozy, with nothing present that needn't be, much like the drawing-room of his underground home. But this one was lighter, brighter—clearly done with her in mind. It contained a piano that must be for her, she realized, once she continued on to find a darker room designated solely for musical pursuits. Solely for Erik.

The other spaces—dining room, kitchen, bathroom—were equally lovely. The bedroom she came to last. In it was a bed made of beautiful carved mahogany: the only one on the entire floor, with no coffin to be found. She smoothed her hand over the fresh linens.

 _Their_ bed.

The knowledge that they might never share it was suddenly too much to bear. She curled into a ball on the mattress, where she finally succumbed to giant, heaving sobs that left her muscles sore and soaked the pillow with her tears.

When she had finally divested herself of as much worry and grief as could physically leave her body, she was left with a lingering mental image, one that she could not unsee: the tiny fawn netsuke clutched in Erik's pale fist.

And then, suddenly, she knew what she must do.

She consulted the wardrobe for a simple, well-cut blue frock (really, did his thoughtfulness know no bounds?), and once she had made herself presentable at the dressing-table, she descended the four flights of stairs to retrieve Pastille.

It was with confidence and a great sense of purpose that she set their course for her father's house.


	32. The Phantom and the Doe

Early update! It seems that these final chapters are eager to leave my head after being bottled up for so many months.

* * *

It was after nightfall when Clara finally slipped back into the bedroom to see Erik again. He was asleep, emitting gentle wheezing sounds that matched the rise and fall of his chest, but Nadir had assured her that the expectorant had helped a bit and that Erik had woken long enough to digest some broth and tea.

There was a chill in the room, so she wound the sash of her dressing-gown tighter and stoked the fire. Then she pulled a chair to the bedside and extracted one of Erik's hands from beneath the bedcovers, trailing her fingertips from his knuckles down to the cold, exposed skin of his wrist. The fawn netsuke was not in his fist anymore; perhaps he had transferred it to the other hand, or tucked it away in his pocket.

Her touch eventually made him stir, and when he found her face, he turned his palm to eclipse her wandering hand with his own. "Ah, my fawn, I thought you had left me," he said. She could barely hear him, even in the silence of the room; his voice was still faint and crackling.

"Never for long," she assured him, "and only when necessary."

"And what has lured you away this day?" he pressed, and she smiled broadly at the opening.

"Preparations. For our wedding."

His lips parted, leaving him to gape like a fish, and his yellow eyes searched hers in a contained frenzy.

"That is," she added, "if you will have me." When he continued to gape, clearly at a loss for words, she went on. "I have been to the house, and it has everything that I could have wished for—except for you, Erik. And I can hardly bear to wait any longer."

"When?" His reply was scarcely a whisper.

"Within the hour." She smiled at him again, waiting for the notion to sink in.

"Clara." He cleared his throat. "If you are doing this out of pity—"

"No. I am doing this because it is time."

He slowly, shakily pushed himself up to a sitting position and glanced at the clock on the wall. "The city hall will be closed, and the law demands a civil ceremony."

"Yes," she confirmed, "but ceremonies are permitted in private homes in the case of illness, and I happen to know someone who is authorized to officiate."

It had been another lesson for Clara on the power of privilege, the fact that the two of them would be able to marry without fulfilling a good handful of frivolous bureaucratic requirements. Her father was the longtime friend of an esteemed city councillor, the very one whom she had danced with at the charity ball, and he had been willing to not only perform the ceremony on short notice, but also sweep a few minor indiscretions under the rug, all in the name of friendship.

Clara stood from her seat at Erik's bedside and added, "I hope you do not mind, though, that our ceremony location is Nadir's sitting-room." Despite her words, she did not give him any leeway to protest. "I will fetch him to help you. I imagine that you would like to wash up and change first." She gestured to the room's second chair, where one of Erik's suits lay, clean and freshly pressed.

He caught her wrist as she moved for the door, pulling her down to sit on the bed. "I do not understand how this is happening," he said, his statement sounding more like a plea. "Is this a dream? Or worse, a cruel trick of death?"

"Ah, but if it were death, you would be sleeping in a coffin, no?" She impishly bit her bottom lip, watching his eyes light up even as his mouth pulled taut.

"You mock me even in my weakened state," he said. "Tell me, Clara, should I expect such impudence in the regular course of our marriage?"

This talk of the future—surely a sign that he was on the mend, she thought—sent a thrill coursing through her. She replied, "Even more often, I should think."

"Mm, very well then. I appreciate your honesty." He reached out and absently swept the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. "Just remember, my sweet, that turnabout is fair play." His fingertips blazed a languid trail along her jawline, down her neck, and across her exposed collarbone, making her shiver. "How very curious that you are wearing a dressing-gown in advance of a wedding. Are you in nightclothes?"

Her face grew suddenly very hot. "No, I...ah...have yet to dress for the occasion." She immediately regretted her choice of words, as they implied that she wore _nothing_ under the gown, but was that better or worse than discussing her unmentionables?

His jaw went rigid. "I...beg your pardon," he said hoarsely. "It was untoward of me to ask."

Feeling bold, she offered a soft but heady reply. "It is hardly information that I would deny my husband, and you are so very close to that, are you not?"

The breath that he exhaled in response was substantial. He nodded. "In fact, I shall not delay us any longer. Please inform the daroga that I begrudgingly accept his assistance."

She slipped out into the sitting-room to address the small crowd already gathered there, all five faces looking up to her expectantly: Nadir, Adele, Councillor Charles Remy, Aunt Céleste, and her father. "Let us get on with it, then," she said softly, offering them a nervous smile, and they sprang into quiet action. Nadir walked dutifully into the bedroom to assist her fiancé.

Oh, Nadir. The man had nearly wept when she had returned to ask permission to marry in his flat. By then, she had already conferred with her father, her aunt, and the councillor—already had them making arrangements—and securing the daroga's approval was her last major hurdle apart from rousing and convincing Erik himself.

She had sat on his divan as she quietly detailed her plans, feeling somehow nervous. Perhaps she had feared his disapproval of her timing? And, in fact, his initial response was, "Are you sure, Clara? He is...not healthy." It was only then that she noticed how weary the daroga looked, the planes of his face dull and sagging from exhaustion and worry. He was not so optimistic as she was, she had realized then.

But she had pressed on. "All the more reason to do it. He is meant to be my husband, Nadir, and he must be made to realize that he has worth, for I think that even now he still doubts it. I can think of no more meaningful way to prove it to him."

And then had he smiled, his eyes turning glossy with the makings of tears. "Oh, child," he had said, his voice strained, and he reached forward to put a hand on either side of her head and kiss her brow. "May Allah reward you with all good."

She watched him slip into the bedroom now, shutting the door behind himself, and then she allowed herself a long moment to breathe. Her afternoon had been frantic, but now she had only one thing left to do: put on her gown.

The men were banished to the hall until further notice, while the women helped Clara dress. Quickly, she shed her dressing-gown so that she stood in her various underthings: chemise and corset, bustle and petticoat, drawers and stockings.

The skirt went on first: ivory satin, hand-embroidered with sprays of flowers in ivory silk floss. The boned bodice was champagne in color, made of silk faille, with front lace closures and a hemline that dipped into a deep V below her abdomen. The sleeves fell just past her elbows and were trimmed with wide gold lace. That same lace also edged the square neckline, curling up and around the back of her neck. A train of matching champagne silk was gathered atop the bustle in the back, spilling over the backside of the gown and out onto the floor behind her.

It was Céleste who had furnished the wedding dress—Céleste, who, unlike Nadir, had _actually_ wept tears of joy when Clara had informed her of her intentions.

"You are not upset?" Clara had asked uncertainly. "You seemed so frightened earlier."

"It was all quite sudden and dramatic," her aunt had replied, "but it has become even clearer to me now: he needs you. And you need him. Though," she added regretfully, "you will not have time to find a suitable dress. Oh! Unless…"

And that was how Clara came to be wearing her cousin's wedding gown, which Céleste still happened to possess. She and Céleste's younger daughter were quite similar in stature and size, and only minor alterations had been needed. She had stayed at the house just long enough to model the gown while the maids came at it with straight pins, leaving her aunt to oversee its alteration and care. Ultimately, Céleste had coordinated everything now on Clara's person, from undergarments to shoes.

Clara had her hair in a low but elegant chignon, with no curls to speak of—despite her aunt's protests—in the interest of time. Céleste now worked to secure the veil: a spill of gossamer tulle, edged in delicate champagne lace, that cascaded down Clara's back and rippled across the train of her dress.

Meanwhile, in her best imitation of a city hall, Adele moved Nadir's little desk to the head of the room for the ceremony. She set a dining chair on one side for the councillor and two on the other for the bride and groom, ensuring that Erik would not have to stand for long. In the center of the desk she set a pen and a small, shallow gold plate bearing Clara's ring as well as the ring that was soon to be Erik's. The simple gold band seemed to pale in comparison to hers, but in the interest of time, she had purchased the first one she found that might fit his thin fingers. Still, she knew that he would not care.

Though she had conscripted a tiny army to pull off this last-minute ceremony, Clara had recruited Adele solely to support Nadir. The directress had not yet disappointed.

"We have finished," called the Persian from within the bedroom. "All clear?"

Céleste fussed with the veil one last time and then nodded her approval. "All clear," Adele called back.

Clara realized with a tinge of regret that she had not even managed to look in a mirror since donning her wedding dress. Then the bedroom door opened and her fiancé stepped out, and no other detail mattered.

He truly was a master of illusion, for she knew how weak he must be, yet he stood tall and proud, with no telltale sign of illness save for his weathered voice and his cough. His suit was dark and crisp, his shoes gleaming, his cravat tied impeccably at his throat.

He acknowledged the other women with a curt nod. "Madame Reynaud; Madame Georges. A pleasure." But it was only in his periphery that he addressed them, for his gaze did not stray from Clara for one second. He walked gingerly to where she stood, clasping her hands in his as he pressed his lips to her brow. "My bride," he murmured. "You are a vision of heaven."

Her heart fluttered so fervently that she feared it might take wing.

"Ah, but you have no bouquet," he noted, and she could not help but laugh.

"I think that one can be arranged," she said, gesturing broadly to their surroundings. "I have merely been waiting on you."

Even in January, Clara had found a woman with a flower-cart, its wooden platform laden with blooms grown in local conservatories or sent up by rail from the Mediterranean. She had bought them all, paying extra for delivery to Nadir's flat. Now the flowers covered every surface in the sitting-room: violets and orange blossom, lilies and camellias, pink cyclamen and yellow chrysanthemums, all made more subdued by the myriad candles scattered about them and the crackling orange fire in the hearth. It felt almost like Christmas in Erik's underground, with the evergreens swapped for sprays of lilies and peonies. His luminescent eyes now took in the spectacle.

"I somehow never asked your favorite flower, so I got them all," she told him. "But if I had to guess..." With some hesitation, she lifted a single red rose and looked to him in question.

He inhaled sharply. "Yes," he said, "you divine creature."

She cut the blossom from its stem and fastened it to his lapel with a straight pin. Beside her, Céleste gathered up the remaining roses to trim them and bind their stems in ivory satin ribbon.

Long ago, when Clara had come upon the dead flowers blanketing Erik's home, she had noticed that most were roses. Her guess at his favorite was based partly on this fact. More than anything, though, she simply could not picture any bloom better suited for that intense black-and-white exterior than a red rose. This one was a saturated blood-red, perhaps an echo of his darker self and his violent past, but in its position at his breast it seemed as though he wore his heart on the outside: a heart that beat with tenacity and passion and mortality.

Again she recalled Nadir's words to her, so very long ago: _He is very much a man. It is both his downfall and his saving grace._

In her darker moments that day, she had briefly wished for Erik to be something else, something as otherworldly as his presence often suggested, if it meant that they could have more time together.

He took a step back to let Aunt Céleste place the newly made bouquet in Clara's hands. The flowers were a stunning contrast against her ivory dress: deep and dark and sensual, far from any arrangement that she would have chosen for herself. And yet she liked this one, too, for it felt like an appropriate marker of the transition taking place. Erik had said it best himself: Clara the fawn, that naive and skittish little thing, was now Clara the doe—and soon, wife.

She looked up from where she held the bouquet against her abdomen. Erik was fixing her with the same look that he wore whenever he kissed her with urgent need: eyes burning, jawline tight with determination. Her stomach flipped.

What she been doing again? Ah. Yes. Wedding. She swallowed to soothe her suddenly dry throat. "You, ah, will need a witness," she stammered. "I assumed—"

"The daroga. Yes, of course." Erik looked to Nadir with a subtle tilt of his head, and the Persian nodded.

"It would be my honor," he replied.

"And who is yours?" Erik asked her.

"My father," she said, and then her eyes widened. "Oh! Father!" She shuffled across the room in her cloud of silk and satin and tulle to open the door to the hallway. Henri and the councillor were talking quietly, but they stopped at the sight of her.

Her father stared, stunned, opening his mouth as if to say something and then closing it again. She saw that his jaw was beginning to tremble, so she spared him the effort of forming words. "Please come in," she told the men. Councillor Remy, now donning a striped sash of blue, white, and red, set a handful of documents on the desk before moving to shake hands with Erik in a murmured introduction.

Henri cleared his throat and offered her his arm. "Shall we?" he asked, and he led her the short distance to Erik's side.

Her father had been the first to know of her wedding plans. She had found him in his study upon her return home, and she had sunk into the chair opposite him without so much as a greeting. He had regarded her with such utter disbelief that she realized he had never actually expected her to come back.

"I said that I would tell you everything, papa," she had told him. "Well...here is everything."

And she had started from the beginning, with the masquerade ball almost a year prior that he had not even known his family had attended. She hated to betray her aunt, but she was determined not to lie anymore, not even by omission.

She had told the story of a girl left broken and useless by the loss of her twin, and of a deformed genius spurned by love and affection and forced underground, and of how fate brought them together again and again under the cover of darkness. She could hardly stand the anguish on her father's face when she talked of nearly jumping and then ultimately falling into the Seine, but she told him anyway because she needed him to know just how desolate she had been and how much that event had changed everything.

She had spoken of Erik deterring bridge-jumpers and saving her life and furnishing white roses and lilies for the family tomb. She had spoken of loneliness and desperation and eventually trust, and of all of the things that had served to pull the fawn and the phantom closer together until separation seemed impossible: riddles and scavenger hunts, lessons great and small, mythology and art and literature and music.

There was Erik's eventual unmasking, its fallout, and a tender sea-cave reunion. His rescue when she was robbed at knifepoint. His snowy proposal of marriage, and a home bought and furnished for her.

Most of all, she had spoken of two very different temperaments that dovetailed to forge a connection so special, so powerful, that the girl found her voice, the man compassion. And as she had described that union, she saw the subtle shift in her father's face, the way his jaw softened and his lips parted ever so slightly, the way his eyes shone with something like recognition and poignancy and—dare she believe it?—pride. It had paved the way for her to request Henri's blessing and assistance. He had agreed, with the condition that he be allowed to attend the ceremony.

Looking about her now, at the small cluster of people who loved her, she could scarcely believe that she would have had it any other way. She still wished with every ounce of her being that Margot was there, but this was enough. This was more than enough.

"Good evening, friends," said Councillor Remy from behind the desk. "Would the couple please be seated?" They complied, and the others moved to the divan to watch. "The process is quite simple," he continued. "I shall read aloud from the Civil Code the articles pertaining to the respective rights and duties of married persons, after which I shall obtain your consent regarding these terms. Once your union is pronounced, I shall draw up the marriage record for you and your witnesses to sign." He picked up a book and began rifling through its pages. "And as I understand it, since there is no church ceremony to follow, you also wish for an exchange of rings?"

"Yes, monsieur," Clara said, and only then did Erik seem to notice, with a twitch of surprise, the rings in front of them.

"Very well. The reading, then. Book one, chapter six, article two hundred twelve: Married persons owe to one another fidelity, succor, and assistance. Article two hundred thirteen: The husband owes protection to his wife, the wife obedience to her husband. Article two hundred fourteen…"

Clara only half paid attention to the councillor's words. This was a mere formality, after all—the love and devotion that she felt easily transcended the Civil Code—and Erik had already moved to clasp her hand. His was shaky: whether from illness or apprehension, she could not say. She squeezed it.

The articles became increasingly more specific, irrelevant, and unromantic. At one point, Erik made a small, exasperated huffing noise beside her, and were it not for the layers of fabric surrounding her legs, she might have discreetly kicked him under the desk. But then the councillor stopped and closed his book, setting it down on the desk before them.

"And now," he said, "the declaration of consent. Will you, Erik, take Clara as your wife?"

Bride and groom looked to each other. How impossible it seemed to convey the significance of binding one's soul to another with only a one-word response! Erik's mouth was set in a firm line, more serious than she had ever seen it, and his amber eyes held hers such that she could not have looked away had she wanted to. "Yes," he said.

"And will you, Clara, take Erik as your husband?"

"Yes."

"You may now exchange rings."

Erik reached out with pale, spindly fingers, still quivering, to pluck the moon-and-star ring from the dish. He slid it onto her ring finger with practiced ease. "You are," he murmured, "my sanctuary."

"And you are mine," she whispered when it was her turn. She was satisfied to see that the gold band fit him well.

They looked to Councillor Remy, who smiled and gestured broadly with open hands. "I now declare you united in marriage," he announced.

Clara barely heard the smattering of applause behind them as her husband leaned in, capturing her lips with his own in the sweetest, most reverent of kisses.

* * *

"Ah, my exquisite bride, what you have managed to execute in a few short hours may be unparalleled."

Erik sat next to Clara on the edge of the divan, across from Adele and Nadir, while Clara's aunt and father chatted in the little dining area with the councillor. The marriage record had been drawn up and signed, the new Giovanni family record booklet dispensed, a bottle of champagne opened and poured. Clara was trying to be hospitable, but she could scarcely take her eyes off of Erik. The sentiment seemed mutual; his hand rarely strayed from the small of her back, occasionally skimming higher or lower, which sent a shudder coursing through her every time.

"I had help," she pointed out, "but I am learning that I _do_ like to coordinate things."

"And she excels at it," Adele interjected. "She is becoming quite the masterful taskmistress."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Erik. "Clara is nothing if not meticulous in her pursuits." He flashed her a sidelong glance, leaving her to wonder which pursuit in particular he was thinking of: her search for his home, perhaps, or her dogged attempts to win back his favor over the summer.

She had sipped only half her glass of champagne before Erik started to lean against her. The shift was almost imperceptible, since he already sat so close, but she felt the transfer of weight against her upper arm. It was not like him at all.

While the others chatted amongst themselves, she lay her head on his shoulder so that she could whisper, "You ought to return to bed."

"Only if you join me," he murmured, and then he erupted into a series of hacking coughs.

His words would have made her shiver at any other time, but now she felt a tightness in her stomach. Had she pushed him too far, too soon? She glanced over at Nadir and saw that he, too, was frowning in Erik's direction. She caught his eye, and they exchanged knowing glances. It was time to wrap things up.

It was another twenty minutes before Céleste and Henri could be subtly persuaded to leave, with the councillor following closely behind. By that point Erik had begun to wheeze again, his head occasionally tipping forward as though he might nod off.

Nadir and Clara each took an arm. "Come, friend, let us get you to bed," said the Persian, hauling the groom to his feet. They began to walk him toward the back room.

"You are too good to me, daroga," mumbled Erik, his eyelids flickering shut for increasingly longer durations. "You and Reza both. Tell the boy I will be along shortly with a bedtime story. One of Rome this time, I should think."

Nadir turned to look at her behind Erik's head, his green eyes wide and sober. Reza, his son, had passed away decades prior, and the two men rarely spoke of the boy now.

Clara brought her spare hand up to Erik's brow, slipping it beneath the edge of the mask even as she felt the searing heat of his skin through the stiff cloth. "His fever has returned," she said quietly. The daroga did not reply.

Her husband worsened even as they tugged off his tailcoat and helped him onto the bed, removing his shoes once he lay flat. He did not protest, did not so much as speak, his body growing heavier with fever and exhaustion. They drew a sheet over him and fell back into caretaker mode, cooling his brow and coaxing liquids and expectorants down his throat, this time with Adele's assistance. Despite it all, the dry crackling of his lungs grew worse, and the fever raged on.

It was in the small hours of the morning that Clara insisted the others leave her alone with him. "There is nothing more you can do at this point," she said. "Either this fever will break, or it won't."

Adele helped her out of her wedding dress and corset while Erik slept a fitful sleep a few paces away. The women shared a tight embrace before they parted.

Clara did not have a nightgown with her, but the fire was warm and the bedclothes plentiful, so she stripped down to only her long chemise. How incensed Erik would be, she thought with a smile, to know that he had missed this.

She stoked the fire for good measure and then peeked through the curtains at the Tuileries across the way. In the winter moonlight, the bare tree branches looked like dark and crooked fingers, beckoning ominously. She shuddered and backed away from the window.

At last, she slid into bed beside her husband, listening to the whistling of air as it trickled through his fluid-filled lungs, and she let the silent tears flow.

"After all you have conquered," she whispered to him, "you must not let a trifling illness get the better of you." She loosed the cravat from his collar, tossing it onto the nightstand, and then she gently removed his mask and wig.

"There," she said, kissing a trail down the hot, twisted flesh of his cheek. "Now you shall be more comfortable, my love."

She settled in against his side, and she prayed that the starlight that had brought her husband to her would not also take him away.


	33. Daylight

A/N: This chapter skirts the line between T and M, perhaps? I think it's tasteful, but I'm throwing a disclaimer out there just in case.

* * *

Clara awoke to Erik bolting upright with a gasp.

She sat up just as quickly, both relieved to see that he was moving and leery of the reason why. "What?" she asked. "What is it, Erik?"

He snapped his head to look at her as though only just noticing she was there, and with a small cry he turned away, hands covering his face. "My mask!" he rasped. "Where is my mask? Oh, do not look at this face!"

She wrapped her arms around his torso and lay her cheek against his back, just as she had done to calm him two nights prior. His white shirt was still slightly damp with sweat from the fever, and it clung to his sparse frame more than usual. Early daylight had begun to filter through the curtains.

"Hush," she murmured. "I took it off so that you might breathe more easily."

She felt him relax at her touch and her words, but only just slightly. The ropy muscle beneath his skin was still coiled with tension, and he moaned. "Oh, Clara. I had a dream, the most beautiful dream, that you and I were wed in a sea of flowers. But to wake up to this…"

She reached around with her left hand to clutch his, pulling it away from his face so that he might see their rings, side by side. "It was not a dream, my love," she said, "nor is it a fantasy that your new wife is wholly undeterred by your exposed face."

Erik stiffened. "I have a wife," he whispered.

"Yes," she said. "Now and forever."

"How long?" he asked. "How long have you lain beside me, with this face exposed?"

"All night. I touched and kissed it, too, and I am not sorry."

She heard his swift intake of breath just as much as she felt it, for it came with a wheeze. "I can hardly believe such a thing," he said, his voice now quavering.

"Turn around, then, and I will do it again."

Clara released him. He emitted a choked sob, but then, gradually, he did turn around, his yellow eyes smoldering with desperate hope.

She flattened her palms against either cheek and gently pulled him closer. When her lips found purchase on the pallid skin of his cheekbone, he gasped as though he had been burned, but she did not stop. She kissed him along that bony ridge—slowly, plying his skin—and continued down the hollow of his cheek, skimming across his dry lips and then back up the other side of his face. His arms snaked around her torso to envelop her completely, as though clinging for dear life.

By the time her lips reached the other cheekbone it was wet, and she kissed those salt tears as well, afraid that if she paused for even one moment, she, too, would start crying and would never stop. Then she pulled her mouth up to his brow as her hands moved to caress the bare skin and sparse hair on his head. His body, now locked with hers, shook with silent weeping.

While her lips continued their sojourn, her hands roamed across Erik's scalp and neck and shoulders, rubbing and soothing, until he began to regain composure. Then she sought out his mouth—gently, but with promise. His lips began to move in tandem with hers, his long fingers coming alive, clutching the fine linen of her chemise. Occasionally he would break away for a split second to suck in air, his lungs still weak, but then he would return to her as hungry as ever.

"And tell me," he said, his voice huskier now, "how long have you been wearing only this wisp of a garment?"

"As long as I have lain in this bed with you," she whispered.

He let out a soft growl and swung her around until she was back against the mattress, her head hitting the pillow. His mouth descended upon hers—harder now—as he stretched out beside her, his bony form pressing into her hip, a spidery hand splaying against her abdomen. Soon he was nearly gasping for breath, yet he did not relent. He started kissing across her cheek, toward her jawline.

"Erik," she rasped. "You must save your breath, and your strength."

"I have a wedding night to make up for," he murmured against her jaw. "Nothing short of death could stop me." He dragged his bottom lip upward to the pulse point below her ear, reintroducing the top lip to create a gentle suction against the skin of her neck.

Her eyelids fluttered shut as her mouth fell open into a small, round "o." It was becoming a struggle to maintain her faculties. "Not even Nadir?" she breathed. "He is right outside."

Erik stopped and withdrew, his eyes narrowing into slits. "That _man_ ," he muttered. "He claims to be invested in my happiness, and yet…"

"He has helped to keep you alive," she replied. "In fact, given how much you have frightened us these past two nights, you are no longer allowed to leave this bed unless he and I say so."

"Only one of us consented to obedience in our vows last night," he said dryly, "and it was not me." But his eyes shone, even more so when she glowered at him. His voice softened and he reached out to stroke the tawny hair that she had let down before bed. "But I will do whatever it takes to please you, my bride, for you have made me happier than I could have ever dreamed or deserved."

He settled back onto the mattress beside her, still running cool fingers across her scalp and through her locks, and they lay in silence as his breathing evened out.

At length, he stopped and moved his hand down to her hip to settle there. "Do you know how many times I have evaded death, Clara?" he asked. She shook her head. "Nor I, for there have been too many to count. And each time, I could not fathom why I survived—I, Erik, whose existence on this earth has been forged entirely of misery and blood! But you, Clara Toussaint, you benevolent creature of starlight—you have justified the foolish hope that I have tried for so many decades to suppress. Ah, I should have foreseen it the moment I learned your surname."

"Toussaint no longer," she reminded him. "I hope that you still like Giovanni, for it seems that we are now saddled with it."

"Any surname shared with you is music to my ears," he murmured, pressing his lips to her brow. "And you remain a saint, with or without your maiden name."

They lay together a while longer, talking and canoodling, until she felt a reluctant sense of obligation to the daroga. "I ought to inform Nadir that your fever has broken," she said, and she moved to sit up.

"If I may," Erik replied quietly. He gestured toward the nightstand, and she returned to him the mask and wig.

Once he was situated she slid out of bed, aware of his eyes tracking her every movement, and she shivered as she put on her dressing gown and stockings. The fire in the cast-iron heating stove had petered out, and she coaxed it back to life before she made her way out to the sitting-room.

Nadir and Adele were asleep on the divan, with the daroga propped up on one end and Adele reclined against him, her head on his chest, his arm curled around her shoulder. They looked quite at ease, and she was caught off guard by how tender and how utterly moving it was, that these two—now her closest friends—should have found each other after so much heartbreak. And now they were here for her, and for Erik, as she suspected they always would be.

The affection and gratitude she felt in that moment collided with her suppressed relief over Erik's recovery, and she could not stop the tears from forming. They spilled onto her cheeks with abandon, and she hesitated, feeling as though she ought to retreat but not wanting to trouble Erik, either.

Nadir stirred, as though sensing her presence, and with his movements woke Adele. Clara almost laughed at how quickly they sat upright once they saw that she was there. But then the daroga honed in on her tear-stained face, and his own countenance paled. He parted his lips as if to speak but could not seem to form words.

She would save him the trouble. She managed a teary smile and said, "The fever broke. He is awake."

She nearly cried again when she saw how his face threatened to collapse under the weight of his relief. A burst of choked laughter escaped his lips. "That man" he said weakly, "is indefatigable."

Clara crossed to the kitchen to put the kettle on, not wanting to attempt the samovar, and she returned to Erik with a glass of water and a fresh washcloth. When she reemerged from the bedroom at the sound of the kettle whistling, Nadir and Adele were parting in the doorway, hands clasped, Nadir planting a kiss on her brow.

Only when he closed the door did he see Clara. He startled, his expression quickly giving way to sheepishness. "Not a word," he threatened.

"I was not going to say _anything_ ," she replied with a grin.

Nadir was nothing if not thorough in overseeing Erik's recovery, and the latter spent the next few days sequestered to the bedroom. The confinement did not sit well with him; he groused constantly. But Clara was firm that he was not allowed to move into the new house until the daroga gave the all-clear, and that was incentive enough for him to cooperate.

In the meantime, she spent half her time ferrying Erik's personal effects to him or to the new house, starting with the cat: Angel, as she had initially been called. Erik had dismissed that out of hand, uttering, "That thing is _no_ angel." Instead he called her Isis, in keeping with their Egyptian mythology theme, based on the way she seemed to assert herself as goddess of all, loftily overseeing the goings-on of the sitting room from the cushion of a favorite armchair: her throne, Clara had decreed.

It would have been an understatement to say that Isis was peeved at being left alone for two days, but Clara plied the feline with neck scratches and morsels of chicken until she had a full belly and was reduced to a pile of sweetly rumbling fur.

Isis was moved to the new house first, and then Clara tackled some of Erik's things, starting with his clothes. Surprisingly, this intrusion did not feel strange, not when she was so used to his attire and when his wardrobe was only more of the same. It was only when she stepped into his bathroom that she began to feel invasive. She had never been in it before, and it was oddly intimate to handle items such as his soap, which smelled like him, that masculine cleanliness with a faint whiff of rosemary.

She packed that, and she packed his comb and his boar-bristle toothbrush. He did not have shaving implements, confirming her suspicion that he did not grow facial hair. She packed handkerchiefs and favorite books and his violin.

She never did come across the gold ring that had brought them together, and she worked up the courage to ask him about it. "It was squirreled away for the better part of a year," he said, "but I tossed it into the Seine on the day that you pledged to be mine." He lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. "That was a different life, my Clara. You are my life now."

Those items that she did not take to Erik for his use at Nadir's, she found places for at the new residence. It was fun and exciting, playing house, and she found it difficult to believe that it would be real before long.

She spent the nights alone, in the new bedroom. It was largely a courtesy to Nadir, whose flat was beginning to feel crowded and awkward enough as it was without a pair of newlyweds in his bed. But it was a mode of preservation for Erik, too; she wanted him to rest, and the ravenous way in which he looked at her of late was enough to give her cause for concern. She was still very much a fawn in some respects, and she knew that if he were to ensnare her, she would fall weak-kneed in surrender.

On day three of Erik's stay, Nadir announced that one more day of rest should be sufficient enough for his release the following day. Clara felt a thrill course through her, but on her ride home that evening, a growing anxiety began to gnaw at her insides. Tomorrow she would need to be a wife, in every sense of the word. She was not even sure what that entailed where Erik was concerned. Surely her life with him would not be one of managing household staff and entertaining a revolving circle of dinner guests, for which she was grateful, but...what then?

And oh, goodness, what of children? She did not even know his interest and expectations surrounding the topic—or her own, for that matter. It was suddenly all very frightening, this business of being grown up and wed.

At home, Clara fed the cat and made some tea to soothe her nerves. She tried to read but was restless, so she walked across the street to the Luxembourg Gardens instead. The flowers were gone for the winter, the trees bare, but it was pleasant enough. There were people there, even in the dark. She suspected, though, that perhaps such was not the case in the small hours of the morning, and she smiled to think of the nocturnal strolls that she and Erik might enjoy there.

The walk back was much the same, every sight populating her mind with visions of her life to be: the bakery and butcher shop, where she had bought provisions only that morning, intending to cook for her husband upon his arrival; the book-stall that she and Erik were sure to patronize; the primary school. It was perhaps the first time that she had really, truly seen her future with Erik in it.

She was smiling dreamily by the time she returned home. She shed her cloak and went straight to the piano. As was everything else in the house, it was tailored for her, this instrument; she could tell by the way the keys felt under her fingers, the tawny color of the lacquered wood, the more mellow tones that it produced.

She played Erik's song for her, and she played it from memory. With few exceptions, she had practiced it every day since he had given it to her. It lived in her muscles now, and in the deep recesses of her brain, and when she performed it, it was as though fingers and keys were one fused entity that could not separate until the melody had played itself out. She knew that she would never, ever tire of it.

She let the music carry her, and as she held the final chord she closed her eyes, letting the satisfaction of completion wash over her.

It was then that she felt his presence.

That tingling presence, sharp with darkness and danger and promise. She kept her eyes closed, afraid that if she opened them, he would not be real.

"I have learned your song," she said quietly.

His voice, when it came, was right behind her. "And you play it beautifully, my sweet." She knew, though, that he could be anywhere in the room, or even outside of it. "To see you fall into the music like that, so willingly—" He sucked in a breath and did not complete the thought.

"I am afraid to ask what you have done to be here at this moment."

"I grated on the daroga's nerves until he agreed to an early release. But he did insist that I go to bed immediately, and who am I to deny him that?" A pair of hands came to rest on her shoulders. The fingertips of one skimmed up the side of her neck and back down again; her stomach flipped. "Might you join me, my bride?"

She could only nod and take the hand that he offered her.

The bedroom lighting was low. He had been in the house for some time, she realized, for she had not even been in the room since morning. "How long did you have to wait for my return?" she asked as they stopped walking.

He turned to face her, and his amber eyes were breathtaking in their intensity. "Too long," he said. He pulled her to him, his lips covering hers faster than she could react, stealing her breath away, yet her arms wound their way around his neck almost immediately.

Oh, heavens, _this_ kissing—this was wholly unlike anything else: a heated collision of two lovers who had overcome significant odds to be standing there, in that moment, as husband and wife, bound to each other in body and soul. Erik was not rough, but neither did he relent; his mouth drank deeply from hers, again and again, fingers twisting into her hair. She wanted to make sure he was breathing enough but knew that any intervention on her part would be swiftly quashed. He finally had unfettered access to her, and she would gladly let him keep it.

They finally parted with a collective gasp for air, her face flushed, his breathing heavy. "Clara," he rasped. His hands came up to hover at the top fastener of her bodice, just below her throat, and he looked to her, questioning. She nodded.

His pale, spindly fingers worked with slow but steady precision to loosen each clasp, blazing a downward trail from clavicle to abdomen. All she could do was watch and try to quell the frantic hammering of her heart. When he unclasped the last of the fasteners, he parted the two panels of Prussian blue silk and velvet to slide the bodice back over her shoulders.

Erik stepped away to place the jacket on the dresser, and then he shucked his own jacket to set beside hers. When he turned back to her, though, he hesitated, his eyes raking over her form as though he could not determine what to do next.

Slowly, with shaking hands, Clara reached back to unfasten her skirt and then her petticoat. She heard his breath hitch as she slid the garments over her hips and down to her ankles, where she carefully stepped out of the pool of fabric. When she reached back to unlace her corset, though, he caught one of her wrists. "Allow me," he said.

He led her to the dressing-table, where they angled themselves on its bench such that she had her back to him. Here she could see in the mirror those deft fingers working at the laces, one layer of clothing closer to her skin than they had been before. The ease with which he loosened the strings prompted her to ask, "Have you...done this before?"

He let out a low chuckle that sent shivers up her spine. "Of course not," he murmured into her ear, "but it is easy to deduce how this garment works." She felt the sudden release of tension around her middle as he undid the last of the laces, and then he reached around with limber arms to unhook the front clasps. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck as he did so, sucking gently, and she closed her eyes against the sensation. She felt both him and the corset pull away.

And then she was swept into his arms, gasping, as he carried her the few paces to the bed and laid her on the mattress. Erik knelt at the bedside and pulled her foot to his chest. She pushed herself up onto her elbows to watch. "What are y—oh!" She cut herself off with a gasp as he wrapped two cold hands around her ankle and slid them up her leg, all the way to her thigh, where his fingers found the edge of her stocking and peeled it down. He did the same for the other leg before returning both to the mattress, and the feel of his fingers around her bare ankles threatened to undo her.

Now he stood, a thin shadow towering over her, and she suddenly felt very small and exposed in only her linen chemise and drawers. She found the edge of the covers and began to pull them down. His hand shot out to stop her. "Please do not hide yourself, my love," he said softly. "Please." And then, perhaps as reassurance, his fingers stretched up to untie the white cravat at his throat.

Clara watched, wide-eyed, as Erik tugged the slip of fabric from around his neck and set it on the nightstand. Next he unbuttoned his waistcoat, and as he shrugged it off she realized that she had never seen him with the vest off. He looked almost sparse without it, in just his white shirt and black trousers. He pulled the shirttails out from his waistband.

He managed to undo only the button at his collar before his hands began to shake. Still he forged ahead, slow and precise, until the front of his shirt fell open to reveal a stunningly pale chest, tinged an ashen yellow and marred with faint, crisscrossing scars. He looked almost malnourished, his ribs visible through thin skin. But then he chose that moment to alight on the mattress, crawling toward her with all the litheness of a cat, and that thin body suddenly became all wiry muscle and crackling electricity. With the stretch of one arm he had planted a hand on either side of her head, his torso hovering over hers while his eyes glowed like hot coals.

She sucked in a breath at his easy show of masculinity, at the sudden realization of how ready she was to give herself over to her husband and, in exchange, have him all to herself, every inch of his skin pressed to every inch of hers, never to let go. She pressed a palm to his bare chest and heard a hiss of air in response, felt his muscles contract beneath her fingers, but he did not pull away.

It struck her as odd that she had been at all afraid of existing as his wife, for she had never felt safer than when she was with him. This was no exception. He, who so often knew what she needed before even she did, would treat her like the sky-goddess he claimed her to be.

When he finally lowered his face to kiss her, she was all too cognizant of his mask: a barrier to her end goal. She placed a hand against it. "I told you once that I would come to your bed without this," she said, her voice a near whisper. "Let me do that for you, Erik. Please, my love, let me touch you."

He bent down and kissed her again, sweeping his tongue across her top lip, gently tugging at her bottom lip with his teeth. "I will," he murmured, and he skimmed his lips down her throat. "But please give me time, Clara. Wait until the moment is right."

"And when will that be?"

His hand was working its way under her chemise now, and a shock rippled through her when it found the sensitive skin at the juncture of her hip and waist. He let out a small groan and worked his mouth against her neck even more fervently. "When I am so lost in you," he rasped, "that nothing else matters. Which I imagine shall be soon." He tugged at her hem, and they began to divest themselves of all remaining barriers between them.

They came to know each other in entirely new ways, with roaming hands and mouths, unpracticed but loving. Clara fused herself to her new husband, grateful for every second that he was real and solid under her fingertips. He worshipped her, every kiss and caress exacted with reverence, her name a quiet prayer on his lips. She was so intoxicated with love and want that when the time came that they could stay apart no longer, she pushed past the inevitable pain and rode it out until it was a receding memory.

It was then, as they took stock of each other in wide-eyed amazement and began to form a rhythm, that she reached up to remove the mask and wig.

She was right to do it then, for nothing else mattered beyond that point save for their union. Being with Erik in this way—it was heady and wanton and urgent, just as it should have been. But as their mutual crescendo built, she could feel from his clenched muscles alone how much this moment meant to him, and she knew that it was the culmination of decades of unanswered hope and that he was hanging on to his composure by only a shred. When he finally let go, sending her spiraling with him, she hardly knew whether to cry out or simply cry—so she did both.

"Oh, how I love you," he whispered through his tears and hers, and then he kissed her and kissed her again until they were both laughing with affectionate relief amid their haze of euphoria.

When she finally fell asleep in his arms, it was safe in the knowledge that he would still be there come daylight.

* * *

 _And an epilogue to go. :) Stay tuned!_


	34. Epilogue

A/N: Wow. I can hardly believe that after seven months of writing and research and shower brainstorms and playlists and secret Pinterest boards, this labor of love has come to a close. Thank you for the feedback and encouragement along the way, and thank you especially to Melancholy's Child, LaLadyCavalier, and EspoirDio, without whose support and input this would have been an entirely different story.

* * *

Daylight was slow to creep into the bedroom on account of the building's west-facing facade. It would edge the curtains and lend a rosy glow to the thick red damask, but without human intervention, it only ever achieved a dusky level of illumination in the room. For Clara and Erik, who often went to bed late and rose late, this was not wholly unwelcome.

Still, it could make it more difficult for Clara to extricate herself from the bed. Today, for example, she knew that she ought to start the day's tasks with expedience, but the covers were so very warm, and her husband was still asleep, nestled against her back, the two of them a tangle of limbs. Isis was curled up in a little ball of vibrating warmth against her opposite side. So Clara stayed put, letting herself be lulled back into sleep.

She was roused again by the hand that skimmed over her hip and across her abdomen. A second cluster of fingers swept the hair off of her neck only to be replaced by lips, cool and dry, that peppered the sensitive skin there with small kisses. She smiled and twined her fingers through the ones at her stomach.

"Good morning, my sweet," Erik murmured into her ear. His hold on her tightened into an embrace.

"Good morning," she whispered back. "We have an exciting day ahead of us."

She felt him stiffen against her. "Yes," he said, his voice tensing. "Too right. I ought to prepare." He withdrew, leaving her to feel cold and exposed, even under the bedclothes. She rolled over to watch him dress, frowning at the haste with which he buttoned cuffs and collar. Isis crossed the bed in long stretches to greet him at the edge of the mattress, and he paused to scratch her under the chin.

"You do not start for another two hours," Clara reminded him gently. "How much time do you really need?"

His fingers began to knot the cravat at his throat with practiced ease. "Ah, but procrastination is the thief of time, my dear."

At this, Clara smiled slyly and slid out of bed, padding over to him in chemise and bare feet. "I have rarely known you to utter trite platitudes," she said as she wrapped her arms around his slender neck, which hindered his progress. " _You_ , monsieur, are nervous. Admit it."

He snorted even as he curled an arm around her waist. "Hardly."

"You cannot fool me," she whispered, "but you have nothing to worry about."

"Don't I?" With his free hand he reached for the mask on his nightstand, and once he'd slipped it on, he gestured broadly at his face. "They are mere children. How can they not fear _this_ when even you, a grown woman, were terrified of me at first sight?"

"Children are remarkable judges of character," she assured him. "Besides, I will be nearby."

Erik scarcely left the house, at least not during the day, but he had noted on the occasions when they ventured out together that there was a marked change in the level of hostility that he sensed in others—all because of her presence, he surmised. "I can practically see their thoughts," he had insisted. "Their eyes dart from one of us to the other, as their minds try to rationalize how such a sweet creature can harbor affection for a man whom they suspect is the devil himself. Only when their reasoning fails do they concede that perhaps I am not the antichrist."

Clara had protested, but as she started to pay better attention to their surroundings on other occasions, she grew to suspect that he was right. Still, she reasoned, at least strangers had the good sense not to say anything.

Erik also had the Toussaint name behind him now, and though the couple kept largely out of society and to themselves, that association certainly did not hurt.

"And who knows?" Clara said to him now. "Perhaps you are less menacing these days than you think you are."

He set his mouth in a firm line. "You take that right back, Madame Giovanni."

"See!" she cried, poking a finger into his chest. "You _relish_ the discomfort of others. Nothing shall ever satisfy you, you ridiculous man."

"Oh, on the contrary," he demurred, his voice dipping lower as he pulled her flush against him. "I can think of _quite_ a few recent occasions whereupon I have been wholly satisfied." He leaned in to kiss her and she shivered, raking her nails across his shoulder blades as her lips returned the pressure. He emitted a soft moan and eventually pulled his mouth away. "Ah, do not tempt me, my fawn. The day awaits."

"You started it," she murmured. She ran her hands down his chest before stepping back. "But perhaps I shall delay tempting you until tonight. Speaking of which—you _are_ still going, right? It is so rare that there are functions befitting our...unusual circumstances."

He sighed. "Yes, but only at your behest. I suspect that you will not enjoy the occasion as much as you think."

"All the more reason to make a game of it, hmm?" She flashed him a mischievous smile and set to getting ready for the day.

Erik was gone by the time she made her way into the dining room, but as was his routine, he had already set out her coffee and milk, her breakfast and newspaper. Usually they enjoyed these things together, and he would buy two different papers from the newsstand downstairs, allowing them to read simultaneously and then exchange or compare.

It had been a month since their union, and they had fallen into an easy rhythm once their initial shyness was behind them. They had not honeymooned, for Erik was in no state to travel, but he had coerced Clara into agreeing on a summer trip instead. In the meantime, she ran the errands, and he kept the house in order. They had opted not to hire staff in the interest of his privacy. He also did the bulk of the cooking, since she continued to work while he did not—that was, until today.

After breakfasting, she made her way down the four flights of stairs between their flat and the ground level. She paused at the second-floor landing to rap at the door there; good smells wafted from within: baking bread and saffron and onion.

"Clara!" Nadir greeted her, and he motioned for her to come in. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I am afraid I cannot stay," she said. "Adele loaned me her shawl yesterday, and I came to return it." She held up the garment.

"Ah, you have just missed her; she left for the asylum only ten minutes ago. But I am happy to take that off of your hands." He took custody of the folded shawl and set it nearby on a still-unpacked crate.

He had moved in only two weeks prior, at Erik's urging, and amid some reluctance and a few muttered objections about being intrusive. His friends would hear none of it. Adele had come over to help him settle in—and had simply never left.

It was a development left unspoken between the two couples. Clara chalked it up to potential religious backlash; Erik maintained that it was because both parties had married once already and were in no hurry to do so again. Regardless, the pair were happy, and Clara could not deny them that.

"And how is your husband faring this morning?" Nadir asked her.

"He is terrified and refusing to admit it."

He nodded. "As I expected. Who knew that all it took was a handful of orphans to humble the Opera Ghost?"

At the ground floor, she reached her destination: her office. Her very own office, provided and furnished by her husband. It was spacious yet cozy, and it offered an invigorating view of the street whenever she chose to open the curtains.

She was mired in correspondence at her desk when there came a small knock at the open door. She looked up to find a single brown eye fixed on her, its counterpart covered by a black eyepatch, both framed by dark and stringy hair that hung limply on the slender frame of the girl in the doorway.

"Mademoiselle Sabine!" Clara exclaimed. "I am so glad that you could join us."

"I thought that maybe you had changed your mind," the child confessed, her relief palpable. "It seemed to good to be true, that I was picked for the—the—"

"Scholarship?" offered Clara. For, indeed, Sabine had been the first prospective recipient she had sought for the newly created Margot Toussaint Scholarship for Musical Study. "Well, Sabine, you caught Monsieur Giovanni's interest with your dedication to the piano. I daresay he sees a bit of himself in you."

He had never told her as much, but she could not forget the human connection that she had witnessed, post-piano tuning, in the recreation room of the asylum, and she had known that she must take advantage of it. She had been the one to set up the scholarship with her father, to reach out to a local orphanage and to Sabine to gauge interest. She had screened potential pupils, set up Erik's studio on the ground floor, and coordinated his teaching schedule. "All you have to do is show up," she had told him, "and do what you do best."

He had balked, of course, but she stood her ground. "You have often spoken of not deserving compassion," she'd told him. "Well, here is your chance to pass it on to others who need it. Perhaps you shall recover some of your self-worth in the meantime."

Once he had turned the idea over in his mind and ultimately agreed to it, he'd added, "At the very least, I ought to grow more accustomed to having children around. An infant does seem an inevitability here, no?"

At this she could only laugh, even as her heart warmed over and expanded in her chest.

It was astounding how quickly everything had come together, and Erik had observed it all with a bevy of reactions that progressed from cool detachment to curiosity to restless anxiety.

He would see fifteen students a week, for one hour apiece; they could always add more later. Clara also had plans in the works for a library room and a row of practice rooms lining the hall opposite the studio, so that students could walk the five minutes from the orphanage to play or study in solitude.

With Sabine still hovering nervously in the doorway, Clara now crossed to a crate on the opposite side of the office and withdrew two items that she now handed to the girl. "A proper coat for you," she said, "since we cannot ask you to walk here in the cold without one. And a satchel, for the music that you are assigned."

Sabine took the coat and bag in apparent disbelief, muttering her repeated thanks, and then Clara led her to the teaching studio. Erik stood stiffly with his hand resting atop the piano, evidently having expected them. He managed a curt nod. "Mademoiselle," he addressed the girl, motioning to the bench. "Please, have a seat."

Sabine made for the instrument with such eagerness that she did not so much as glance backward. Erik immediately launched into questions of her repertoire, his body coming alive with the fresh surge of music that Clara knew must be forming beneath his skin. Neither of them noticed when she left the room.

It was easy enough to keep occupied well into the afternoon. She worked on the bookkeeping; Nadir had been teaching her that. She made herself lunch. She welcomed additional students as lessons ended and new ones began. Then, during Erik's last lesson of the day, she hired a cab to take her to her father's home, where—with the help of her aunt and her former maid—she would begin to ready herself for the evening's festivities.

* * *

It was Mardi Gras, and what struck Clara about the masked ball at the Palais Garnier _this_ year was that nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed, and absolutely everything had changed.

How much a single year had wrought! The last time she had paused in this grand vestibule, surveying the revelry before her, she had been terrified. Her twin sister had been standing beside her. She had only begun to learn the ways of the world beyond her doorstep.

She now walked in a married woman, and though she was not overly fond of the crowd, neither was she afraid. In fact, she was rather emboldened by the anonymity that her costume afforded. Yet, the ensemble still reflected who she was; tonight, she both was and was not Clara Giovanni, née Toussaint.

 _You can be_ anyone _you want to be tonight_ , her sister had said at the last masquerade, but Clara knew now that a mask could only conceal so much. It had not hid her then, not really, nor had Erik's mask kept her from tracking him. And for that, she supposed, she ought to be terribly grateful.

The purpose of the evening was twofold: first, to take advantage of a social gathering in which Erik could be himself without consequence; and second, to enact a challenge. She simply had to know whether the two of them, in disguise, could manage find each other again. It was another game of opera house hide-and-seek: this time, in plain sight.

She slowly traversed the vestibule, the auditorium, the grand staircase. Her eyes scanned over every patron and yet she saw none of them, her senses holding out for something more electric.

Clara moved to the grand foyer, where she was overcome by déjà vu at the sight of the refreshment tables and the waiters bearing champagne and the presumably locked doors to the loggia outside, through which she had once tried to escape near-suffocation.

"Ah, so you have concealed your hair," came a sultry curl of a voice at her ear. "Very clever, Madame Giovanni." Even as she whirled around, she knew that he would not be there behind her. Her instincts were correct. She began to scan the foyer, her senses heightened, but she did not see anybody as sharply thin and poised as her husband.

Her gaze flicked back to one of windowed doors leading to the loggia: the same one, she recalled, that Erik had unlocked for her a year prior, failing to lure her out onto the terrace. Her hand reached out, seemingly of its own volition, to push down on the handle.

It opened.

Without a moment's hesitation, she crossed the threshold and stepped out into the Paris night.

The lights from the street and from the building's exterior lit the vast balcony enough for her to make him out, but it was his eyes that she found first, rich and gleaming. From there, she took in his ensemble: all scarlet, with a large, feathered hat and a majestic cloak of red velvet that spilled onto the ground behind him.

"And what are you meant to be?" she asked.

"Red Death."

"I do not suppose you could have chosen something less ostentatious."

"And what would be the fun in that?" He approached her slowly, bearing two glasses of champagne. "Besides, I had this stowed away. I shall not waste any more time or money on frivolous costumes, my dear, not when I have the eye of someone who sees past them. Those days have passed."

As Erik moved in to hand her a champagne flute, he took in her snow-white dress and veil, the black mask that covered everything but her lips, the single red rose pinched between her fingers. "And whom," he asked, "are _you_ meant to be?" A slight quiver in his voice told her that he had a guess, but she answered him anyway.

"The bride of the Opera Ghost, monsieur."

"How very scandalous!" he replied. "You are already wed to a music teacher!"

"Yes," she confirmed, "but it was the ghost whom I first fell in love with. It seems only fitting that I honor him as well."

He sipped at the champagne. "And what does the ghost's bride expect of a marriage to him?"

She mirrored him, bringing her own glass to her lips. "Well, he is the master of this opera house," she replied with doe-eyed reverence. She pressed herself to him so that she could whisper into his ear. "Let me be its mistress."

She heard him suck in a breath as he grabbed her by the waist, clenching in his fist a handful of fabric at the back of the dress. " _Always_ ," he hissed. "It is yours to do with as you wish. What is it that you would like, my dear? I would have them perform _La Favorite_ for a year if it pleased you."

She laughed. "You would _not_."

"You're right; I would not. But what then, my love?"

Here she smiled and pressed the palm of her rose-bearing hand to his masked cheek. "I desire only your happiness, and I suspect that you are starting to miss this setting terribly. Shall we live here part-time, perhaps? Would that be amenable to you?"

"No," he said emphatically, shaking his head. "I am through being driven underground." Here he tipped his head back and drank again, more generously this time, before focusing on her with startling intensity. "It occurs to me, however, that I spent years imagining ways in which to romance a lady in this theatrical palace. Never did I suspect that I might actually take advantage of them! Perhaps you would be willing to cross some of those items off the list?"

Clara smiled conspiratorially. "What is item number one?"

And then they were pushing their way through the crowd, navigating hallways, climbing stairs. Erik led her by the hand but kept turning to kiss her with increasing urgency, until he was walking backward so that he would not have to pull away. She might have laughed at his youthful fervor had he not been holding her lips hostage.

By the time they crossed the familiar catwalk leading to the roof exit, she had lost her rose and her veil, and Erik was yanking loose the clasps at the back of her bodice. He paused to push open the window, and they both gasped and shuddered at the brisk wind that slammed into them. "Never mind," he rasped. "Too cold."

He pulled the hatch shut and continued where he had left off on her dress, his hands tugging and roaming until she began to melt against him and he lay her down on the catwalk. The thrum of the crowd in the auditorium below both unnerved and thrilled her, but she was too far gone to protest, and the noise would ultimately serve to drown out the strangled sounds that escaped her throat at her husband's touch.

At length, when they lay side by side, breathless and disheveled, he reached over to clasp her hand and remarked, "What a gift you have given me, my Clara."

"Oh? And what is that?" she asked, happily languid in both movement and voice.

"My dreams." He pressed her knuckles to his lips. "Dreams that I thought should be buried with me in my satin-lined coffin, never to see the light of day." His voice broke on the last word, but he quickly recovered, swallowing whatever emotion had threatened to spill forth. "But let us talk of you," he said. "Do you recall the substance of our conversation a year ago, at this very event?"

"I do."

"Then tell me, my sky-goddess and ghost bride, what are your dreams and aspirations now?"

She could not stop the corners of her mouth from curling up as she entertained the possibilities ahead of her. "Oh, Erik," she said, "I could not possibly tell you now. I am just getting started."

He squeezed her hand, and they lay in silence for some time, listening to the orchestra and the merriment below.

"This function is just as awful as I remember," she finally said.

"Quite."

"I think that I would prefer to go home and take all of this off, and then get in bed with a bottle of champagne. We still ought to toast to this momentous anniversary, after all." She pushed herself up to a sitting position, yanking her chemise down flat over her torso so that she could refasten her corset.

His fingers stretched out to tug at her laces. "I can hardly think of anything better."

Once situated, they walked back across the catwalk and into the dark recesses of the backstage area. "You know," Erik said, pausing to open a door for her, "becoming mistress of the opera house requires a certain level of commitment."

She glowered at him as she passed by. "Such as?"

"A willingness to embrace all of its spaces and secrets. And its exits."

Clara stopped in her tracks, turning to face him. "If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting...?" She trailed off, and he nodded. "Well, then, my answer is—" She paused and took a deep breath. "Yes. My answer is yes. But if I perish," she warned, "I truly will become a ghost bride, and I will haunt you as annoyingly as possible."

He chuckled and took her hand. "Aha, there is my brave little fawn."

The Opera Ghost then led his bride to a narrow hall, positioning her carefully before he wrapped his arms around her. "You are certain?" he asked.

"As much as I shall ever be," she replied. "After all, what is life without some measure of risk?"

He held her tighter and moved his leg to set off the lever. "Steady, then, my love," he murmured. The trapdoor underneath them gave way, and she plummeted with her phantom into the welcoming darkness.


	35. The Bridge, Revisited

Uhh, wow! Hi! I thought I was done with this story, but it seems it wasn't done with me. LaLadyCavalier has been asking me for at least a year to rewrite the bridge scene (chapter 5) from Erik's point of view, and as today is her birthday and she's been my No. 1 cheerleader since I first started publishing, I owe her big time.

And in case you missed it, I published an M-rated version of chapter 33 ("Daylight") last year. It's called _The Phantom and the Fawn_ , and you can find it here: s/12410460/1/The-Phantom-and-the-Fawn

* * *

He recognized her by her hair.

They should not have been so familiar to him, those tawny locks, nor the pale dip in her neck, the sloping curve of her hips. Especially not at such a distance. He should not have felt that strange pang of want when she first appeared in his sight, lifting her mourning veil to peer over the iron rail of the _Pont des Arts_. But then, she had haunted his thoughts for six weeks now. The memory of how warm her palm had been, upon the return of his ring, still lingered on his fingertips. It had terrified him to the point of avoidance: he had caved to obsession once, and he could not do it again.

 _Completely devoid of respect or feeling_ , she had deemed him. _A madman._

He had been toying with her since the masked ball: that much was true. She had been an easy target from the moment he first saw her, doe-eyed and tight-lipped and skittish, standing alone among the crowd of revelers.

But that was not _why_ he had first noticed her.

Among the bright and brazen harlequins and dominoes, she had materialized as a goddess of starlight. Her gown, inky blue and ethereal, suited her so well that it might as well have been her usual attire. He had noticed her because she, too, was a creature of the night. Now here they were again, in the darkness, wraiths drifting among men.

The thought gave Erik pause. What had he called her? A fawn? She was supposed to be young and bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, embroidering and painting as her lashes fluttered coquettishly at eligible bachelors, or whatever it was that young ladies did.

But then, he had dismissed such things as mundane, had he not?

He had shamed her. Threatened her where she sat with her family at the Opera. Turned up _in her bedroom_ just after she had lost her sister. That had been six weeks ago, yet she somehow seemed worse for the wear, moving about with a leaden melancholy to suggest it was an effort just to exist.

Unease curled around his midsection and clenched, leaving him with the most awful premonition. His legs spurred him forward even before his thoughts caught up with his gut—even before she mounted the guardrail that overlooked the Seine. But he had not yet closed the distance between them when she clambered up there, and his heart seemed to stop altogether.

She sat on the railing with her arm around a lamppost for support, and he slowed his gait to refrain from startling her. The rigid line of her spine slackened, her side pressing into the lamppost as though settling in.

She was not committed to this act. He had time to intervene.

There was no way not to catch her offguard, and so he reached out with steadying hands as he spoke. "We meet again, little fawn."

She jumped. The movement made her slide on the rail, and she threw her arms around the lamppost for balance. By then, however, he had a firm hold on her sides, his long fingers curling into the muscle and bone there.

"I'm alright, thank you," she said between shaky breaths. Not once did she turn her head to look at him. He released his grip and moved to stand beside her, an arm's length away. He could not shake the image of black silk sliding across metal, sending her delicate frame tumbling into the Seine. He trained his gaze on the river so as not to alarm her further, but he watched her in his periphery with near-painful alertness.

"How curious," she said, "that you should turn up in this very location, in such a large city, at such strange hours."

He almost had to smile at the veiled accusation. He supposed he could not blame her for thinking such things. Or was this a halfhearted attempt at banter? "I could say the same of you, mademoiselle," he replied, with a glance to gauge her reaction. She stayed silent, lips drawn, gaze trained on the anxious glimmer of water in the lamplight.

It was after he had tried to die, and failed, that he had first walked to this bridge. Restlessness had compelled him to wander each night, without purpose but perhaps in search of it. It had begun to rain, and as he'd pulled the hood of his cloak tighter around his face, he'd seen her: a slight woman of about thirty, holding herself over the river, restrained by only her boot heels on the bottom rail and her ungloved, white-knuckled hands clutching the metal at her back.

She had worn no hat; slick strands of her dark, unkempt hair had been plastered to her face and neck. It had been impossible to tell whether it was rain or tears that slicked her ashen face, but there had been no mistaking the resignation in her shivering frame.

She had watched his approach with wide eyes, her lips trembling. "Please," she'd begged. "Please stay back."

He had stopped, raising his hands in supplication. "I do not wish to trouble you, madame. Only to offer assistance, if you will take it."

"I cannot," she had replied hoarsely. "Oh, monsieur, it _hurts_. It hurts so much that I can bear it no longer."

He had found himself at a loss. She'd been, from what he could tell, quite pretty. Surely life could not have been so cruel to her? But then, he'd supposed, many a woman had been targeted on account of her looks. Taken advantage of. Or perhaps she had lost someone?

It had occurred to him, then, that he knew almost nothing of the struggles of ordinary men, preoccupied as he had been by his own.

Regardless, it had felt imperative then that he fake it, if only for her benefit. "I understand," he had replied. A pause. Then, "Do you know, I once read an account of a soldier, severely wounded in battle, who was advised by a doctor that he ought to be grateful for his pain, as agonizing as it may have been."

The woman had frowned then, her bottom lip still quivering. "And why was that?"

"Because it meant the soldier was alive. He would have the opportunity to heal, and to find new purpose, that his fallen comrades did not have."

She had cried even harder then. In the end, she had accepted his outstretched hand.

A similar encounter had occurred on the same bridge the following month, and so it had seemed only natural to post himself there going forward. What else was he to do? He owed the world more restitution than he could ever possibly hope to attain.

He now found himself relaying this assumed occupation to one Clara Toussaint, though in not as many words.

"Are you an angel, then?" she asked lightly.

His insides crumbled. She could not know the memory and heartache attached to that single word, could she? Yet she had delivered such a painfully well-placed blow. He could not hold back his caustic laughter. "I am as much an angel as you are a sky-goddess," he said. The sting of regret was quick, however, and he added, "Farther from it, even."

She seemed not to take offense. "I thought of Nut on my walk here. She sounds lovely."

He had not told her of the other role that the sky-goddess played in Egyptian mythology, and as he considered her recent circumstances, he debated whether she would find the knowledge a sadness or a comfort.

He put his faith in the latter and spoke softly. "She is also the protector of the dead."

Her next breath in was sharp and shaky. He did not have to see her face to know that she was crying, and he was on the verge of an awkward apology when she replied, "That's good."

He exhaled his relief. "Perhaps," he said, "but it seems to me that it is more often the living who need protection." He now grew more unsettled with every passing second, knowing how precariously she was perched on the rail, and he could dance around the topic no longer. "Why are you here, Mlle. Toussaint?"

There was a pregnant pause before she answered, quietly, "It's my birthday."

"And I suppose you wish me to express some sort of sentiment," he said, clenching his jaw at her evasiveness.

But she only shook her head. "I wish to skip the day entirely."

She did not elaborate. He tightened his grip on the guardrail and gazed out over the water, unsure of where else to take the conversation. She clearly did not wish to talk to him—not that he could blame her—but neither did he feel comfortable leaving her as she was.

Suddenly, her lips parted again, and everything became clear: "It is my sister's birthday as well."

 _Twins_. He had never given much thought to the phenomenon before. Undoubtedly there would be marked grief from losing any sibling, but twins? One had to wonder whether they shared a sort of mutual identity, in some respects, stemming from their simultaneous conception and growth. What must it be like, to function as part of a unit whose other half was gone?

"I offer my condolences again," was all he managed to reply.

"Thank you."

He could not have said what prompted it, but her tightly wrapped defenses began to fall away. In those intimate small hours of the morning, she gave quiet words to her grief, and he stood by in utter disbelief that she should choose to confide in him, of all people.

"I cannot breathe," she told him at one point. He thought he at least understood that, even if not the full scope of her loss, so he told her as much.

Perhaps that was what eventually gave rise to that punishing, albeit inevitable, question.

"Why do you always wear a mask, monsieur?"

How foolish he had been, to carry on as though that impediment, just for once, might not mean anything to her. He should have expected no less from her, really, the skittish little thing.

Irritated with the both of them, he spun on her. "So as not to unleash the furies of Hell upon this earth," he bit out, his gaze hard and searing. "Beneath this mask lies death itself."

There! Let her quiver and keen before him. Now they could return to their respective roles as death and the maiden, as beauty and the beast, before he dare hope to have a human exchange unmarred by face or mask.

But her eyes went wide only briefly before her expression settled. "Suppose it were my dying wish to see the man behind the mask. Would you show me then?"

His stomach sank, and his anger dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. How hypothetical a question could this be? The poor girl was only a step away from death. And he would grant her any last wish, if it came down to that—save for this one.

He turned back to face the Seine, for he could no longer look her in the eyes. "It would be an undeservedly torturous exit, for that to be the last thing you saw in life. No, Clara, you shall never see this face." She was silent, so he pressed on. "I do not pretend to have known your sister, but I doubt this is how she would have wanted you to honor her memory."

"I was not planning to jump, if that's what you mean."

Relief overtook him so quickly that he was swept into a riptide. "Then you ought to stop with these foolish theatrics!" he snapped. Of all the juvenile, short-sighted, utterly reckless things to do! He thrust a hand at her and ordered her to come down.

Her face went white. "Yes, monsieur."

Clara stood, feet on the guardrail, and pivoted in order to climb back over it. There was a sudden _snap_ and a gut-wrenching blur of movement and sound: a shoe falling, a leg giving way, the echoing _clang_ of forehead smacking against guardrail, and then, finally, black silk slipping through his outstretched fingers as the little fawn tumbled into the dark and watery maw of the Seine.

Even at night, the resulting splash seemed almost inconsequential against a sprawling city backdrop. For a moment, Erik could only blink at the circular pulse of water that the impact left behind. Could she swim? Was she conscious? How long did he have to make these determinations before the current swept her away?

He darted to the other side of the bridge, where the current likely would have her now, and scaled the guardrail. Quickly, he reached back to tighten his mask until the edges cut fiercely into his skin. Then he covered the nose holes with one hand, and he jumped as far as his legs would take him.

The water was shockingly cold. Immediately it began to seep into the gaps between mask and skin, working its way into his nasal cavity. Even with his keen eyesight, it was too dark to see anything. Still, he began to thrash his legs and paddle with his free arm in some semblance of swimming.

It was by some miracle that he felt a brush of skirt against his hand. He clenched it with desperate fingers; he would _not_ fail her again.

His hand made contact with her solid form, and with both arms he pulled her to his torso in a frantic embrace. Then, as swiftly as possible, he propelled the two of them to the surface.

He came up gasping, the water in his nasal cavity making him choke and sputter soon after. Clara hung limp beside him; he gently tucked her head into the crook of his neck before he made the arduous swim to the riverbank. At the first indication of solid ground beneath his torso, he collapsed beside her.

How small she looked beside him now, with her hat and veil gone, and with wet strands of caramel-colored hair adhering to pale skin. The color had faded from her lips. He lifted a shaky hand to her face but could not detect any outward breaths.

He scrambled to his knees and rummaged through his pockets. "Forgive me, my dear," he murmured, on the off chance that she could hear him, "but we must clear all obstructions." Out came his penknife, and within seconds he had yanked open her bodice and bisected the corset beneath it. Then he rolled her onto her abdomen.

Never had the sounds of wet coughing and sputtering been so welcome. His relief was short-lived, however, as the sounds devolved into the sharp, desperate gasping of lungs denied breath. He swiftly moved her onto her back. Dare he try to respirate?

Another dire wheeze sounded in her chest, and then it was not a question. He lowered his mouth to hers and breathed.

He had never shared a kiss in his life, a fact that he tried hard to dispel from his mind at the sensation of her lips, cold and clammy and soft, yielding to his. This was not a kiss, of course—it could not even begin to mirror that exchange of affection and warmth that he understood a kiss to include—but still his hands trembled where they held her head and chin as he coaxed his own breath into her lungs.

 _Come on now, little fawn. You are far stronger than I gave you credit for._

Slowly, the gasps began to ebb, her breathing still shallow but even.

"Ho there!" called a voice from the road above. "Is everything alright, monsieur?"

Erik could make out the silhouette of a man and then, just behind him, that of a carriage. "This woman has nearly drowned," he called back. "I must get her immediate medical attention." Breathing though she may have been, he now worried about her body temperature. His own skin felt as though it was sheathed in ice.

The driver came jogging down to the bank. He was a squat and round, with a dark and greasy moustache, but he lifted the girl with practiced ease. "Do not tax yourself, friend," he said as Erik began to object, "or you will be of no use to her." He headed up to the road, her wet and lifeless form in his arms. Erik grabbed the discarded corset and rushed to reposition the bodice over her chest, if only for modesty's sake, recalling with sudden and mortifying clarity how her thin chemise had clung to her frame.

"Your wife?" the man asked. "Paramour?"

"Yes," Erik replied, determined not to waste time or energy. "Have you a blanket in your cab, monsieur?"

"I do indeed." The driver arranged the girl on a seat, leaving Erik to prop her up against his side, and promptly returned with a thick blanket.

"The Rue de Rivoli, please," Erik instructed as he wound her tightly in gray wool. "I have an acquaintance there who is a doctor." Another lie.

He would have much preferred to take her to his own home, far away from the meddling and piercing judgment that he knew awaited him at the Rue de Rivoli, but this option was closer and warmer, with no labyrinthine underground to navigate while carrying an unconscious woman.

The cab lurched forward, and he glanced down at her sleeping form. Her face was so much softer in repose, the lines of worry and sadness having dissolved. All that remained was sweetness.

But the innocence that had once been there—that, too, had faded.

How much of that had been his own doing? He dare not look back over his shoulder, at the trail of ruin that stretched long and dark behind him. He resolved to be more cautious going forward.

A strand of hair clung to her cheek, and he reached out with spindly fingers to move it aside.

When they arrived at their destination, he insisted on carrying the girl up the stairs himself to his friend's flat. Long had he lamented the sorry state of the deteriorating lock on the apartment door, and he found himself relying on it now.

He pulled the girl closer to his chest, gathered his strength, and kicked the door wide open.

"Daroga!" he bellowed. "We have a new development."


End file.
